The mask’s eyes burst into scintillating light, making all who watched gasp and shield their faces. Then the villagers whooped and burst into applause: To be touched by the divine light of a Raybearer, many believed, meant a year of splendid luck.

Thaddace and Mbali claimed their tokens and festival crowns next, then my council siblings, until only Sanjeet and I remained. When I drank from the gourd, something hard clicked against my teeth. I spat the object into my palm.

It was a small sunstone, erupting with fiery light. A small hole had been bored into the gem, as if meant for a chain. The heat of skin seared deep in its memory, along with the pound-pound-pound of a strong, stubborn heart.

The elders seemed confused for a moment, their immense wooden masks bobbing in conference. “Dominance,” one of them intoned at last. “That is the traditional meaning of such a token, as sunstones rest on the brows of Arit emperors. But you are a girl, and so the meaning refers to your proximity to greatness. You shall, perhaps,” said the elder, bowing his head coyly, “bear the fruit of dominance.”

My face burned. A murmur rippled through the village crowd, peppered with stifled giggles. Apparently the rumors about me and Dayo had spread farther than Oluwan City.

Kirah gave an irreverent snort. My gaze met hers. She rolled her eyes so hard, laughter bubbled in my throat, and my shame fell away.

I held up the sunstone. “I will bear fruit for Aritsar,” I said sharply, “with my imperial scepter. As your High Lady Judge, equality and justice will be my children. Perhaps,” I added coolly, “my only children. Long live the sun and moons.” The crowd fell silent. Without rushing, I pocketed the sunstone, collected my crown of grass, and returned to my seat. As I passed, the villagers who had snickered lowered their eyes in fear. Good.

Then it was Sanjeet’s turn. He looked resplendent in black as he approached the vessels, decked in the long embroidered tunic and linen trousers of Dhyrma princes. When the elders saw his token, they were silent for even longer than they had been for me. From a distance away, Sanjeet seemed to hold an ivory stone. Then he turned the object toward the firelight.

It was a small carved skull.

“Your hands were made for death,” a masked elder said simply. “There is no other interpretation. You may not trade this token.”

An indignant murmur rose from my council’s dais. “That’s not fair,” I sputtered.

But Sanjeet only shrugged. “It’s nothing I don’t already know.” He rolled the skull around in his wide palm. “I hoped once that Am would use my hands to heal instead of kill. But I am overruled. A High Lord General protects the innocent. I will dirty my hands to keep my prince clean.” Then he knelt to accept his festival crown.

The village girl who held the wreaths didn’t move. When Sanjeet glanced up at her, the whites of her eyes flashed in terror.

“Rude girl,” one of the village mothers scolded, looking embarrassed. “You must crown His Anointed Honor.”

The child did not move, staring at Sanjeet like a cornered deer. “I don’t want to,” she mewled. “I don’t want to.”

Sanjeet paled. “Please.” He held out his hand to the child and smiled. “Don’t be afraid.”

She leapt as though Sanjeet had tried to strike her. “No, Prince’s Bear, don’t hurt me—” She burst into tears and bolted back into the crowd, abandoning Sanjeet’s grass crown in the dirt.

Sanjeet knelt for a long time, staring at the crown in silence. Then he stood, face hardening into its usual mask. A few brave villagers came to dust the crown off, flocking around Sanjeet and bobbing with apologies, as Dayo and the others made a fuss, demanding the elders supply another interpretation.

I said nothing, though my feet carried me from the dais. The scene around me faded to white noise, and my vision tunneled. I had to keep moving—I could not back down, not now. As my skin poured with cold sweat, a panicked cry cut through the air.

“Anointed Honor Tarisai is crossing the pit!”

My bare soles chafed on the hot wooden grain. I had left my sandals on the pit’s edge. The board was barely wide enough for both my feet; I had to place one in front of the other, forcing me to look down.

The inferno grinned at me.

I choked back a cry as the coals shifted, sending up a cloud of embers. The pit was gone, and I was running again toward the Children’s Palace bedroom doors. The air was blistering, and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, and Dayo was going to die all over again and it would all be my fault …

My vision swirled in red and white, blind as my feet continued to cross that flimsy board. My eyes stung and wept from the smoke. A sea of forked tongues rose with the heat and light, roaring in my ears: ours, ours, ours. And in that moment, I realized the true reason I feared fire.

It knew.

Fire recognized me for what I was. It claimed me as a daughter; it crackled and commanded that I burn and destroy. Fire would not hurt me, because fire had made me.

And someday, Made-of-Me, murmured a voice as my nostrils filled with a musky floral smell, I will have you once again.

“No,” I whispered, and stumbled. Then my soles met cool, dark earth. Arms reached to steady me as my guards and council siblings babbled with relief. They checked me for burns and dusted the embers from my wrapper, stamping the sparks in the dirt. I shook all over but ignored the fuss, pushing through the crowd to where Sanjeet stood frozen.

Water pooled in his eyes. The mask had fallen from his face, replaced with shock, disbelief, and a simmering passion that made my knees weak.

I took the skull from him and held it above my head. “I have broken Sanjeet of Dhyrma’s curse,” I croaked, voice still parched from the smoke. “His hands were made for life, not death. Bear witness.” Then I hurled the skull into the flames. The village cheered, and the drummers pounded a deafening beat. I retrieved the last wreath crown and placed it in his combed curls, and Sanjeet caught my hands and held them against his face. My heart slammed in my chest, but just as abruptly he relinquished me, striding over to the elders.

Sanjeet held out his hand, demanding the drinking gourd without a word.

“Yes,” an elder said, handing over the gourd hesitantly. “Since your last token has been revoked, you may choose again.”

Sanjeet plunged the gourd into the vessel, tossed back some honeywine, and spat out a glittering ruby.

“Ah,” the elders crowed. “An excellent token. Am has smiled on you—”

The revelers gasped as Sanjeet threw the ruby in the dirt. He submerged the gourd into the vessel again, and this time he fished out an emerald the size of a plum pit: twice as valuable as the token before. He tossed that aside too.

Speechless, the entire village watched as Sanjeet drank and plunged, over and over, discarding a small mound of treasures in the dirt. At last, he stopped and smiled. A small round token winked in his palm.

A cowrie shell.

SANJEET POCKETED THE TOKEN AND LEFT THE festival grounds without a word. His back melted into the shadows beyond the pit’s glow. I stared after him even when the musicians began another song and revelers gyrated around me to the tonal beat of talking drums.

From her dais across the grounds, High Priestess Mbali waved me toward her. She stood and began to descend from her dais, but before she could, an arm pulled me into the crowd. I jumped, prepared to rebuke an impertinent villager … and found myself scowling up at Dayo’s grinning face. Why did he always spirit me away when I tried to speak with Mbali?

“I don’t dance,” I reminded him.

“But you can,” he said. The obsidian mask glittered on his chest as he moved in a rhythmic circle around me. “I saw you. Years ago at the Children’s Palace. You snuck up to the roof with Kirah to watch the festivals in the city. And you danced.”

“You followed me?”

He placed a hand on my waist, coaxing it to sway instinctively. “I followed you.”

Oluwan dancing relied almost entirely on hips. The drums pulsed fast and high, like the heartbeat of a wild hare. I lacked the natural grace of Oluwan women. I was awkward and stilted in places they were fluid and sultry. My steps faltered, and my face heated with embarrassment. “Everyone’s watching,” I muttered.

“Don’t look at them,” Dayo said. “Look at me.”

I did. His broad Kunleo features were radiant. He winked, teeth bright against his skin, which was beautiful even with the burn scar. I remembered how cheerfully Dayo had mocked himself in the earlier game, and I envied his childlike freedom. My hips began to roll to the beat, and I mirrored Dayo’s arms.

“Don’t look,” he reminded me as my gaze slid to the crowd of villagers around us. The Ray hummed in my ears and I heard him add, Do you love me now, Tarisai of Swana?