Sweat dripped from Hesi's hairline to her chin, her fingers twitching and turning rigid. Her heartbeat thrummed in her temples as she hunkered down on the square frame. She grabbed the twine and laced the thick thread around the frame's legs before weaving it between the spaces in the canvas. It resembled tying up a tent flap against a branch. Should be a breeze.

The trial happened inside a wider room in the royal palace—the farthest most brides reached since the trading square—and for whatever reason, the corridor leading to the prince's quarters sported an enormous stone at the lip. How would the prince go out? And why would the Mayaware take a huge risk in bringing the brides here, when one planned to infiltrate and commit murder?

It betrayed one thing—the Mayaware did not know.

Darpeh, even Kharta could fly by unnoticed, and he was the one with a more...acidic method.

At the thought of the steward, she flicked her gaze from her project to where he sat with the other bald Mayaware whom she assumed to be important. Festophis, the head of the Steel Fortress, settled cross-legged on a velvet cushion, a displeased frown plastered on his face as though he didn't want to be here. Beside him sat a female Mayaware adorned from bald head to toe with gold and colorful gemstones. Must be Nephdaphis, the only female general in the army.

The others seated beside them could only be Heruphis, Khetaphis, and Iserphis. Each was powerful and wealthy by their own right. Each had the patience of a fly and would not hesitate to kill her off if she showed any sign of wavering. But like how the Mayaware saw humans, she didn't bother telling the generals apart from the ones she already met.

Kharta refused to meet her eyes, focusing instead towards Uzare who was already halfway through her pottery project. Hesi figured as much. They shouldn't declare to everyone whatever connection they shared. Why was she disappointed though?

She returned to her canvas which was propped in the middle of the frame like a man about to be flayed. She rummaged around the wicker basket of dyed spools and picked the only shade she used for practice. The thread unwound with ease. The needle joined her hand not long after. Slowly, with her tongue sticking out between her lips, she pushed the thread into the needle's eye as Barteset taught her. Then, she started embroidering.

Her shoulders jumped every time the needle resurfaced from the other side of the canvas and plunged into her thumb. Rehema's voice rang in her head—Stop putting your thumb in places you expect the needle to go through. Hesi stuck a lip out. How could she know when to pull the needle through?

Two weeks wasn't enough for her to master more than one shape. Barteset gave up teaching her more than the stitches she needed to make the flower Uzare showed her. That meant Hesi was on her own with the grass. And the sky. And the river.

Occasionally, she glanced up and studied the progress of the other brides. Seated behind the low tables surrounding the room, the women hunkered on their own crafts. There was Uzare who dipped horsehair into a jar of dye and ran it across the side of a drying vase. Mensa was back on her feet, hammering away at a block of wood which took the shape of a blob with a misshapen head.

Isueri took a sheet of leather and showed how ink splattered on her skin. Each strike of the hammer against the thorn stuck into a wooden stick made Hesi's needle jabs tamer.

Rehema did painting, splotches of paint staining her hands and cheeks. Semret took a stylus and carved out the Breidye script on a slab of clay. Poetry? A psalm? Now, why didn't Hesi do that instead? Ah, right. She couldn't write, and it would take over two weeks for her to get used to holding a writing tool.

Asrate settled with sculpture, using a slab of marble as opposed to the wood Mensa attacked. The clicks of Tagara's heated knives against golden strips rang across the room. Born to parents who were jewelry makers, this trial worked for her. Already, Hesi saw the beginnings of the shiniest golden diadem.

Petra's finger tinkered with a stringed instrument Hesi never encountered before, scrawling madly on a parchment laid out on the table. Even if the sound was discordant and complemented by Tagara's snipping at unflattering intervals, Hesi felt Petra hid real and raw talent the longest.

Barteset beat them all, though. The oldest woman sat on a separate stool, distant from the low table the rest stuck with. Before her was a large loom. Compared to Hesi's frame, Barteset's machine let her tread hair-thin fiber from one end to another. Even the other women in Festophis' slate, Otraqte and Khono, went with their projects. Was Khono using...ceramic shards? And glue?

Hesi pursed her lips and focused on her own project. The flowers were coming along nicely, albeit random and scattered. She hasn't worked out where to put the haze of green stitches for the grass. A breath blew from her lips. One step at a time. Patience. Perhaps that was the virtue they must learn here.

She didn't know how long her fingers suffered, but soon, two claps resounded in the room. "Time's up." Kharta's voice followed.

Her head snapped up. That fast? She wasn't done. The other brides must be the same—

A Mayaware servant surveyed the room, snatching the projects from the brides' workspaces. Everyone wore satisfied expressions on their faces. Only Hesi's heart beat out of time. Even Barteset, when the Mayaware skirted towards her, plucked a finished yard of patterned fabric from her loom.

One by one, their projects formed a queue before the generals' table. The Mayaware servant stopped before Hesi, and before she could ask for more time, a clawed hand snatched her frame. She became a stuttering mess as she watched her project wash away. She couldn't embarrass herself further by speaking up. What would she say? One look at Festophis, and she could tell the general wasn't pleased with her performance.

"Now, introduce to us your piece," Kharta ordered.

Her eyes widened. Darpeh. Nobody told her about that. Was she supposed to explain her mediocrity to a panel of demons who saw her as nothing but food?

Nothing could stop it. One after the other, the brides stepped up when called and said something about their submission. Mensa's sculpture was a Mayaware in the middle of a fighting stance. Even Khono's ceramic oddity turned out to be a wonderful mosaic showing a rendition of the art in the study hall's ceiling. How the woman matched and found the right shades of ceramic was beyond Hesi.

Petra played her composition—a sweet pleasure Hesi would never experience again—and Semret sang in the most divine voice in Tjarma. Both explained their works to benefit the Mayawarean culture and encouraged the generals to use their compositions in important festivals and other occasions.

Then, it was Hesi's turn.

Kharta's eyes never left her face as she strode towards her project. The sweat and pounding heartbeat returned. She lived by stabbing Mayaware in the frills. She wouldn't survive this.

She cleared her throat, blew a breath, and pictured her siblings in the breeding farms. For Pai. For Unsu. "As you can see, it's unfinished. I won't try to get around that," Hesi started. She ran a hand down her arm, her fingertips throbbing with the wounds left by the needles. "But I think this represents the relations between humankind and the Mayaware."

A couple of grunts emanated from the generals. She swallowed the growing lump in her throat. "I-I think it's a wonderful thing." She put her palms forward as though she surrendered herself for a crime she didn't commit. "Our kind have been at war for survival for as long as we can remember, but look at us now—humans and Mayaware in the same room. I say it is a moment worth acknowledging."

Nephdaphis' features relaxed. Even her claws retreated from to nail beds. That was...good, right? "This project, no matter how abstract it is, is reminiscent of our ties as two races," she continued. "But past its...flaws, there is a message of hope beneath."

Festophis' eyebrows met, making his shadow-lined eyes appear sharper. "What do you mean?"

She licked her lips. "There is hope that this landscape—these relations—can become better and clearer in the long run," she replied. "Given time, attention, and patience, I think my project and the concept it represents can become our bridge pointing us to a brighter future."

With that, she ducked her head at the generals and Kharta before retreating to her seat. The steward braced the table and straightened. "That concludes this trial." He turned to the generals. "Do the brides pass?"

A full minute of silence went by. The generals didn't confer with each other. They broke the silence when they bobbed their bald heads. Relief washed over her like a scorching blast of sand during a storm. She glanced at the other brides to find them beaming at each other and at her from ear to ear. Amazing how she avoided getting eaten early in the game.

"I thank you for your presence, Great Generals." Kharta bowed to the Mayaware seated beside him. Did they unnerve him at all? How long had he spent doing this job to stomach sitting still beside them for hours? "The brides are dismissed. Please escort them back to the palace."

She followed protocol—gathering with the rest of the women on the room's corner, checking headcounts with the Mayaware soldier in charge of yanking them from place to place, and preparing to depart. The generals or those of higher rank would leave first. The brides would always leave last.

That reduced her to watching Festophis stalk out of the hall, Nephdaphis in his wake. When it was Kharta's turn, he paused for the briefest moment on his way out and glanced in her direction. Their gazes locked.

Then, he smiled.

The world slowed. When she thought to return the gesture back to the steward, only air lingered by the door.

What in Tjarma was that about?

Splinters dug against Hesi's arms and poked through the fabric of her gossamer dress. She raised her hand to her face, reaching for the stream of sunlight bursting from the slits in the walls. She loved coming into this room because, for a second, she could touch the sky. Or at least feel like it.

"Is there a reason you're avoiding Yobekh's lecture?" Kharta's voice speared into her ear, causing her to drop her hand to her chest and turn to him. From her vantage point lying on a cleared work table, his frown was lopsided. "I have things to do, and you're...well, in the way."

She crossed her arms, jostling her breasts along the way. The gossamer dress did nothing to secure her baggage. It was nowhere near the scratchy rags she tied around her chest. Those did their job and did it well. Her hair shuffled under her head, more strands falling from where they ran on the table and joining the ones dangling from the edge. She smirked at him. "Why? Am I too distracting?"

He trudged back to the messier desk at the opposite side of the room and checked a glass vial or two. He scribbled something on his infernal sheet of parchment. "You could say that," he said. A pause. "But not in the way you think."

She snorted and shifted sideways. Now, only her arm pressed against the table's rough surface. The faint smell of varnish assaulted her nose. Her legs tucked backwards and crossed at the ankles. "What way am I thinking of?" she asked, innocence lacing with her words.

His shoulders slumped with the breath he blew. "How can I know?" he reasoned. "I can't look inside your head."

"What do you think attacked Mensa in the High Prince's chambers?" she wondered instead.

To her shock, he faced her with a grim expression in his features. "I don't know."

Her nails dug into her arm. "What happened to 'I know everything that happens in this place'?"

He drew a vial from his wiry metal rack and rapped his middle finger against the side. He gave it a little shake before placing it back. He tousled his unkempt hair and scratched the side of his face. "The palace has long-held secrets," he said. "What happens in the High Prince's chambers is one of them."

"And you didn't think to find out?" she challenged. He would be stupid if his answer was no. How could he hope to defeat his enemies if he didn't know everything about them?

"If you think my job is as easy as sauntering around with my flesh laid bare, I assure you, it is not," he answered. The darkness in his eyes deepened, making her hunker to herself more. He was not pleasant when pushed into a corner like she was fond of doing. "Hundreds have died so I can reach this height, and I do not intend to waste their sacrifices by foolishly nosing around in endeavors that aren't mine."

"But it's the High Prince." Her voice sounded like a child who didn't understand why the river was made of water. "Shouldn't it be your business?"

Kharta crossed his arms and leaned against the table. His sandals slid across the floor in a quiet brush. "If the King decides it's not my business, then it is final," he replied.

"Then what do you know?" She pushed herself off the table and leveled her gaze at the steward. Unlike most men she met in the desert, he held her eyes, her hostility, and her frustration. He didn't cower before her. Didn't even budge.

He swiveled towards the racks and plucked a different vial. He held it towards her direction. A familiar green liquid sloshed inside. "The sample you gave me." He shook the vial lightly. "I see this used in the healing quarters for trauma survivors, especially human servants. Did you get this there?"

She bobbed her head. Her hair must be a mess after squashing it around when she plopped over his spare table. What could she do? Her back hurt from sitting on nothing but cushions through Yobekh's lectures. "What does it do?" she asked.

"It's an amnesiac," he revealed. "It makes the patient forget recent events. Used regularly, it can even erase certain areas of memory. Sometimes, the damage is irreversible."

She narrowed her eyes. "It's given to Mensa, the bride who got hurt inside the High Prince's chambers," she said. "Don't you think something is happening inside?"

To his credit, he was consistent. Consistently uninterested. "I wouldn't bother finding out, if I were you," he said with a resigned inflection. "Don't forget our deal. You will get me the royals' heads, and you can't do that if you declare an open war with them now."

He had a point, and she hated it. She didn't want him telling her what to do, but with him playing this game for far longer, she would be better off listening to his veiled threats.

"If she stops ingesting it," Kharta added after a whole beat of silence. "There's a chance she will remember."

She edged off the table, her sandals thumping on the floor lightly. "Thank you." She dusted her hands to get rid of the splinters clinging to them. She gave him one last smile as she left—payment for the one he gave her the day of the second trial. Then, she was out of the room, tearing through the familiar routes until she reached the bridal palace.

She found Mensa in the communal room about to shove a spoonful of porridge into her mouth. Her hand reached out just as she dropped into a cross-legged sitting position and snatched the bowl from the bride.

"Hey! That's mine!" Mensa screamed. "If you want one from the healing quarters, fake your own illness!"

Hesi ignored the woman and the eyes landing on her and the commotion she stirred. She sniffed at the white goop with bits of grain floating on the thick, murky soup. Underneath the smell of garlic and ginger, another pungent odor wafted out. The amnesiac. Of course.

"From now on, eat only what I eat," Hesi said.

Mensa's features crumpled into confusion. "Excuse me?"

Hesi set the bowl down and braced a hand on her knee, facing the woman with the bright red hair. "It may be something you ate that caused the attack in the High Prince's chambers," she said. "This is just me looking after you so that no one gets hurt again."

She glanced at the other brides who took an interest in their conversation. "I don't want any of you to get hurt," she continued. "Mensa's accident reminded me we are still humans inside Mayaware territory. We shouldn't let our guard down."

The brides nodded—the only response Hesi hoped to get. She needed them unsteady on their feet. Only she has to be strong, appearing to know what to do for them to trust her, to make them listen to anything she says. Because if Kharta gave up on pursuing this road, then she would uncover it.

Berheqt has a secret, and if she were to reveal it, she would gain another stick she could play to her advantage. And if she wanted to win this game, she needed as many sticks as she could gather.

So she flashed an extra-gentle smile in Mensa's direction, keeping the intentions showing in her face pure. If she was to get one step closer into dealing the Mayaware a lethal blow, she needed what nestled in Mensa's head.