Be brave, Amari.
I take one last breath. My white streak tumbles free when my helmet hits the ground.
“She’s one of them!”
“The queen is a tîtán!”
Gasps ripple through the crowd. A handful of maji push toward the front. Unrest builds in the dome as soldiers dive in after them.
My voice withers as Roën’s mercenaries form a ring around the stage, but the dried blood across my breastplate reminds me of my strength. I am the only one who can bring Orïsha together. I am the queen who can keep all of these people safe.
“I wanted to hide my truth,” I shout. “My apprehension about what I’ve become. But the return of magic and the birth of tîtáns are living proof that we are finally returning to the Orïsha the gods have always wanted for us! We’re so full of hatred and fear, we’ve forgotten what blessings these abilities are. For centuries these powers have been the source of our strife, but the gods ordained us with magic so the people of Orïsha could thrive!”
The commotion in the dome stills as people become ensnared by my words. Our peace may be fragile, but as long as they’re listening, I have a chance.
“Think of how Grounders could farm our land. How teams of Tiders could cut the work of fishermen in half,” I say. “Welders could erect new cities in days. Healers could ensure those we love don’t perish from wounds or sickness!”
I speak to the rebel maji with a scar over her eye. The young soldier with a scowl on his lips. I paint each dissenter a picture with my words, seeing my dreams almost as clearly as the mural carved into the ceiling above.
“Under my rule, this will be a land where even the poorest villagers are fed, housed, and clothed. A kingdom where everyone is protected, where everyone is accepted! The divisions of the past are over!” I extend my hands and lift my voice. “A new Orïsha is on the horizon!”
This time when the cheers erupt, they’re deafening. I beam as the sound echoes around the dome, the cries to unify powerful and loud.
“Kí èmí olá ó gùn Ayaba!” Someone shouts, a chant that travels throughout the crowd.
“Kí èmí olá ó gùn Ayaba,” Zélie translates. “Long live the Queen.”
My body feels so light I’m sure I could float above the stage. The crowd’s chant reverberates inside me, awakening pieces of me I didn’t know I had. It brings me back to that magical moment in Chândomblé, the wonder of the art Lekan brought to life. Now I see that same peace and prosperity. That same magic is within our grasp—
“Lies!”
The voice booms above the masses, its ice quieting the crowd in an instant. Heads turn toward the dome’s archway. I grab my hilt as metal boots crunch through the sand.
I lock eyes with Zélie, and she nods, ready for the fight. But when the sea of people parts and the challenger comes into view, my blade falls from my hand.
Even with her hood raised, I recognize the slink in her step. The iron in her veins.
“Mother?”
My hands fly to my chest. A laugh escapes my lips.
I move toward her, unable to believe my eyes. But when she lifts her head, the hatred that burns in her amber gaze freezes me in place.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ZÉLIE
I DON’T NEED to read Amari’s face to recognize the source of her amber eyes. Queen Nehanda shares her daughter’s beauty, but where Amari is soft curves, this woman is sharp angles and severe lines. Like her daughter, Nehanda wears a suit of armor, but hers shines in gold. The polished plates curve over her chest, accented with serrated shoulder pads and sculpted gauntlets.
“What do we do?” Tzain whispers, grip tightening on the handle of his axe. Despite what Roën’s intelligence said, Queen Nehanda still lives. The monarch glides across the sand, a deep purple cape flowing behind her with the ocean breeze. Her precision is deathly familiar.
It makes the scars prickle on my back.
“You survived!” Amari smiles, but Nehanda doesn’t even spare her daughter a glance. As she takes in the room, she seems acutely aware of how the entire dome hangs on her very breath.
Aware of how a single word was all she needed to take a cheering rally into her own hands like the crack of a whip.
“Bold promises,” Queen Nehanda finally speaks. “Elegant lies. But these aren’t the words of a devoted leader. Only the vitriol of a power-hungry tyrant.”
Her accusation lands like a slap to the face. Amari actually stumbles back. A wave of rumbles starts among the crowd, dissent trickling through like water from a broken dam.
“Mother, what is this?” Amari steps forward. “I thought you were dead—”
“You wished it upon me!” The queen cuts her off. “You sent maji and mercenaries for my head!”
“I didn’t—”
“You tell these people their king has fallen, but you fail to mention the crime of regicide by your hand? You speak of your late brother without admitting it was you and the maji who killed the rightful heir to the throne?”
Horrified gasps pulse around us, echoing through the dome. Air that once held hope and promise withers under a new cloud of suspicion and disgust.
“That’s not true!” Amari cries.
“You deny killing your own father?”
“No, I—” Amari’s cheeks flush and she takes a deep breath. “The king died by my hand, yes, but I didn’t kill Ina—”
She doesn’t get a chance to finish. Whatever hold Amari had on her people evaporates.
“Traitor!” someone shouts.
“Liar!” another joins in. Their fury builds and crests like a wave intent on bringing Amari down. My hands shake as their rage spreads, spilling onto the maji sprinkled throughout the dome.
Amari holds up her hands, a feeble attempt to hold their fury back. The stance makes her look like a helpless cub in front of a den of snow leopanaires.
“Before you stands a traitor.” Nehanda glides forward. “A rebel who allies with liars and thieves. An insolent child who has endangered us all with magic just so she can be queen!”
“Mother, please,” Amari begs. “Let me explain!” But her voice cuts like wood where her mother’s strikes like iron.
Amari’s cries shrivel even further when the queen’s guards enter the dome, distinguished by their golden armor and razor-edged swords. In the glare of their gilded seals, I see Mama’s corpse.
I feel the heat of the flames that engulfed Baba’s casket.
“I will not allow you and your maji insurgents to run this kingdom into the ground,” Nehanda shouts. “You are under arrest for your crimes against the crown! Anyone who aids you shall be taken down!”
Panic ignites as her guards stomp forward, arming themselves with glass orbs filled with night-black liquid.
“What are they holding?” I shout at Tzain.
“I don’t know, but we have to get Amari out of here!”
Tzain runs toward the stage, but he’s not fast enough.
Nehanda fixes a golden mask over her face as her soldiers smash their orbs into the sand.