Hesi raised her arms to protect her face. "Pretend I'm a Mayaware," she said. "Where would you hit?"

"From the side," Tagara answered. Her mouth settled in a thin line, her eyes running down Hesi's frame. Out of all the brides, Tagara was the quickest study in close combat. It was as though, like Hesi, she was born for it.

"Correct," Hesi said. She bobbed her head. "But where exactly?"

"Between the frills and the cheek."

Hesi narrowed her eyes. "Do it."

A blur of amber sped in her periphery. She raised an arm and blocked a significant punch. Pain shot up her wrist, but it didn't break. Thankfully. A rustle, and another whoosh of wind shot towards her. A leg? She gritted her teeth, pivoting her wrist around Tagara's arm. A knee would have slammed into her gut. With a grunt, Hesi tightened her grip on both limbs and swung Tagara down, pinning her to the floor.

"I didn't tell you about the kick." Hesi grinned as she edged off Tagara and offered the bride a hand. Tagara took it. "Are you watching, Isueri?"

Behind them, the brides whom Hesi paired together practiced basic maneuvers she taught them. They were the least these women have to master when facing off with a demon. And as she discovered, none of them save for Hesi had a physical encounter with a Mayaware, much less fought one and lived.

"I should learn as much as I can." Tagara rolled her shoulders. She cracked her joints, sighing in relief. Sweat glistened on her neck and dotted her hairline. Unlike when they attended Yobekh's lectures, everyone was back to desert attire—much to the chagrin of their maids—and went at it after the midday meal.

They were eager when Hesi brought the topic of their next trial, and she offered to teach them experiential wisdom in dealing with an overgrown snake. She had them show their strongest punch, and from there, she determined which trajectory to approach each bride from.

As she taught Pai and Unsu for the briefest time they spared between foraging, traveling, and running for their lives, she honed her material to a fault. It wouldn't be difficult to coach others.

That was how they turned their communal room into a practice hall. They covered the windows with every yard of fabric they encountered. They didn't want to have a Mayaware maid walking in and discovering their activities. It would prompt a question that would betray them knowing the next trial. And when that line of inquiry popped up, fingers would point to Hesi.

It wasn't far-fetched. Hesi used them as much as they used her. And like her, they wouldn't hesitate ratting her out should she become their downfall. She knew, because she would do the same.

Hesi acknowledged Tagara's commitment. The bride took Festophis' affection for her as something to live by. Hesi learned to steer away from Tagara's competitive nature. Even though they agreed to help each other, it wouldn't shock Hesi to learn that Tagara secretly made sure the High Prince would choose her.

Tch. As if Mezo would settle for a woman like Tagara.

Hesi's limbs lurched to a rigid pause on her way to check up on Mensa. Since when did she think of the Mayaware prince as his name? Sure, he gave her the permission to refer to him as that, but who gave it for her to think of him that way? It wasn't her. Perhaps.

She frowned and swiped her hand across her forehead. Her shoulders did an involuntary slump when she discovered her sweat wasn't blood. Even after spending three months in Berheqt, she hasn't gotten over her life in the desert, back when danger lurked in every visible direction.

And she shouldn't forget it anytime soon. Because unlike the desert, the royal capital was a den of vipers, except their fangs were unseen. There was as much danger lurking inside the palace as the cresting dunes. Betrayal, manipulation, murder—everyone here could do them without blinking. If Hesi were to win, she must do them well. Better than most.

"Hesi, is something the matter?" Mensa's voice speared through her thoughts, jarring her back to reality. "You're standing there for a while."

She blew a breath and faced the red-haired bride. "Show me your stance," she instructed. "Let's work on your force application today."

Mensa has trouble controlling her strength and finding the right timing to attack and defend. Even Barteset, who revealed she was as old as Hesi's mother upon death, nailed it since they started. The woman could force Hesi into a stalemate, pushing her to play dirty every time.

"Listen, I have something to tell you." Mensa raised her arms to her face and lowered herself to a stance. Hesi studied it. Feet apart. Hands in front of face, protecting it. Breaths steady. Good. "It's about my dreams—"

Hesi lunged, aiming for Mensa's side. Her leg rose from the ground, turning to the kick she taught Rehema. She clenched her muscles, aiming for a softer and slower attack. She expected Mensa to see it and act accordingly. The bride didn't.

Her knee slammed into Mensa's gut, sending the bride toppling to the ground in a loud crash. At least, Mensa stopped her fall with a tuck-and-roll Hesi taught a few days ago. It was a way to soften the impact and avoid shattered bones.

"Let's talk about dreams later." Hesi exhaled a long breath and reclaimed it. She helped Mensa up, the bride massaging her side. A bruise might appear there later. Should Hesi hold back? Mensa wouldn't learn though. "What did I tell you about focus?"

Mensa sniffed, wiping the back of her hand against her nose. "Don't lose it," she recited. Like the survival rules, Hesi didn't mind them repeated to her both as a reminder and as proof they understood.

"Good," Hesi said. Then, she lunged again. Mensa's block was better. The bride still skidded across the floor with Hesi's every attack, but the fire dancing in Mensa's amber eyes would keep her going.

They traded blows, with Mensa landing hits sparingly. Even if she wasn't the sturdiest nor the fastest, she made up for it by being the most diligent. She'd do well in the trial tomorrow.

Their fight screeched to a stop when Mensa swung her fist towards Hesi's face. She'd break her fingers if it connected to a bone, a jaw, or a gut. Hesi gritted her teeth and lashed out, her fingers splayed. They took Mensa's fist, making Hesi slide across the ground until one leg folding at the knee stopped it.

Mensa squeaked and scrambled back. "I'm sorry!" she said, making the other brides pause as well.

Hesi dusted her knee and staggered up. She gave Mensa a brief nod. "You need not apologize to a Mayaware," she answered. "You only have to note the position of your fingers when throwing a punch. You need to use your fingers after one. Hurting the enemy does not need to mean hurting yourself too."

"Thank you, Hesi." Mensa pursed her lips. "Now, about that talk—"

"Hey! No fair!" Semret shrieked, drawing Hesi's attention. The youngest had her stomach pressed to the ground, her arm twisted behind her back by Uzare. Semret's other hand tapped against the floor in frantic thuds. "I said I surrender!"

Hesi massaged the bridge of her nose. Perhaps it was a bad idea teaching these women to bash people's heads off.

Hesi craned her neck, frowning at the ceiling adorned with murals and jewels. Up ahead, the brides crooned among themselves. Confusion was a common sentiment. She couldn't dismiss the growing stone of dread in her gut either. She sauntered deeper into the hall, their Mayaware escorts with spears and swords trotting less than five paces behind.

She couldn't run. Couldn't even scream for help knowing someone would hear her.

The hall towered over them, reminding Hesi how inconsequential she was. Floor-to-ceiling windows blocked most of the morning sunlight. Hammered sheets made of shells painted red, blue, green, and gold guarded the windows and bathed the floor with multicolored blobs. It resembled a blurry painting.

Their footsteps echoed in the empty room as they reached the center. With every brush of sandals against the polished stone floor, her dread rose into pikes of fear. Something was wrong. If this trial was about combat, they wouldn't do it in such a pristine place. She spent enough time with the Mayaware to know they were vain creatures. They took pride in shiny treasures. They would never let this artwork be tarnished by human sweat and blood.

A long table slanted from where the rows of windows stopped. Beyond that, a certain dimness gnawed at the far side. Seated behind the table were the generals. Kharta stood at the table's right, refusing to look at Hesi even from a distance.

Once the brides gathered and forcibly fell into a single line facing the generals' table, Kharta inhaled a sharp breath before speaking. "Welcome to the Temple of Opkher." He met her eyes, no doubt reading all the questions shooting from her gaze. "We will now begin the third trial: physical reform."

A chorus of whispers emanated from the brides while Hesi clenched her fists to her sides. Kharta lied to her. He knew combat wasn't the next trial, but he said it anyway, making Hesi believe he told the truth. She sent daggers in his way, but his attention was to the brides now waving their hands, confused like Hesi. She was cheated. Betrayed.

She should have seen it coming from miles away. She and Kharta played in a dangerous field. It was only a matter of time before one of them tried to get rid of the other. And what in Tjarma was physical reform, anyway?

Kharta cleared his throat, still avoiding Hesi's glare. The little rat. He clapped his hands and a manic set of footsteps erupted from the door. She turned to find more Mayaware maids holding trays of jars, folds of clothes, and...were those jewels? The servants fanned out into two lines and laid out the trays in a neat array. Eleven. They were for the brides.

"Being queen means knowing how to care for oneself even without the attendants' help," Kharta said, his voice full and not shying from the high-ranking demons beside him. "Suppose you are invited to officiate a festival. How will you fix yourself up? Show us your best efforts. We look forward to seeing buds blossom today."

The steward stepped back and sank into the empty seat the farthest from Festophis. The brides gave Hesi questioning looks, inducing more guilt and shame in her gut. Kharta made her look like a fool to her comrades. Her friends. She wouldn't forgive him even if he groveled.

She retreated between Tagara and Mensa. Stuck to her slate when she wasn't certain of her fate. At least she would fly under Festophis' gaze if she was next to his favorite, Tagara. Hesi turned to the trays before her. One was for rows of little jars of various powders and pastes of different hues, consistencies, and textures. When she lifted the lid of one jar, the smell wafted to her face. It brought her back to the days she spent in the basement room. Her eyes widened.

Were these what he attended to during those visits?

If so, why didn't he tell her?

Her shoulders slumped. A folded gossamer dress sat on the tray to her left. Was she supposed to wear it? Where was she supposed to change? Blood drained from her face when she realized what it implied. They had to change in front of everyone.

Even Kharta.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and studied the tray supporting a slab of mirror. Pearls and sapphires gilded it. On the glass' surface, a different person glowered back. The woman's skin was dark brown, almost like ripe dates. Eyes as green as moss stared without blinking. Full lips, round face, tapered chin, sharp cheekbones. Hair as dark as the midnight sky framed her face, falling past the mirror's edges and raining on her lap. As she sat on the floor, the ends pricked her calves and soles.

Was this the girl named Hesi Renen? She forgot her own face.

Without hesitating, the other women opened jars and stuck brushes or their fingers inside. She studied them and memorized the sequence of jars and what part of their face and neck they applied the contents to. After they moved to their hair, she slathered gunk on her skin.

It was hard. With only the mirror and inexperienced hands, she wouldn't look like a queen after this. But when she finished, her face was smoother and her complexion glowed like the moon during a clear night in the desert. She preferred her old skin tone, though. This was washable, right?

Her hair was no problem. She braided her hair for a long time, both to get it out of the way and to avoid shearing it as Pai did. She liked her hair long, for whatever absurd reason she had. When the final knot slotted into place, she turned her head this way and that. The woman in the mirror copied her movements. The plaits were fine—nowhere near as complicated and tight as the Mayaware maids did—and no strand was out of place. Chilly wind kissed her nape, sending shivers down her shoulders. She couldn't get rid of the stares sinking into the flesh of her back.

She waved a hand over the jewelry scattered at the foot of the mirror. Before she started overthinking, she grabbed the first one she found—a comb adorned with bits of white ore. Golden wires resembled spindly branches of some shrub. They glinted when she stuck the comb into her plaits. Another accessory joined it. Then another. Within seconds, she patted the bottom of her updo, checking things stuck to her scalp like decorative splinters.

The brides stood up and changed into dresses. Hesi followed, snatching the gossamer sheet before her. It was similar to undressing to take a dip in a river. The desert was an empty space. She wouldn't be seen. As quickly as she could, she wrapped the gossamer around her body, discarding her old clothes in a haphazard pile at her feet. Then, she stepped out of her space and joined the brides as they fell into a neat linel. Everyone looked spectacular, making Hesi's work look like a child's. If she wasn't eliminated in this trial, she would believe in her luck.

Kharta opened his mouth to speak but a general beat him to it. "That one." Festophis jabbed a finger towards the brides. "Kill her."

Hesi took too long to follow where that finger ended. Blood sprayed and splattered onto Hesi's dress, face, and sandals. Something scuffled and thudded at her feet. She looked down to a pool of red. It wasn't the rusty liquid staining her soles. It was the color of hair.

Mensa.

They killed her.

She whirled to the generals and noted Kharta's passive face. Not a grimace, not even a slight twitch in his features upon watching his kind get butchered. A Mayaware soldier wiped the back of its hand against its exposed fangs, stepping away from Mensa's body. Life already left the woman even before the demon reared its head.

"She did not display the minimum requirement for passing this trial," Nephdaphis said, her face void of any emotions for the fallen woman. "She must be killed."

Hesi's blood simmered. Her fists clenched. That was not the reason Mensa had to die, and the Mayaware confirmed it. The demons noticed Mensa stopped taking the amnesiac. The bride remembered. The Mayaware needed the secret dwelling in Mensa's head to stay in the shadows.

The swift changes of the order of trials weren't to catch the brides off-guard. It was to rid themselves of the chink in the armor in the fastest way possible. She forced herself to hang her head and drink every detail of Mensa's painted face and the gentle curves of her body before it was thrown to the vipers. It would be torn to pieces, never to be whole again.

And she had never been more wrong. The Mayaware were vain creatures, but with protecting their own, they wouldn't mind a stain or two.

Especially if it was from humans.