The Ivory Key

Dedication

For my first storytellers: Sugandham Paati, Kothai Paati, and

Srinivasa Raghavan Thatha

Map

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Map

Chapter One: Vira

Chapter Two: Riya

Chapter Three: Ronak

Chapter Four: Riya

Chapter Five: Vira

Chapter Six: Ronak

Chapter Seven: Vira

Chapter Eight: Vira

Chapter Nine: Ronak

Chapter Ten: Riya

Chapter Eleven: Vira

Chapter Twelve: Kaleb

Chapter Thirteen: Riya

Chapter Fourteen: Ronak

Chapter Fifteen: Vira

Chapter Sixteen: Riya

Chapter Seventeen: Ronak

Chapter Eighteen: Kaleb

Chapter Nineteen: Riya

Chapter Twenty: Vira

Chapter Twenty-One: Ronak

Chapter Twenty-Two: Riya

Chapter Twenty-Three: Kaleb

Chapter Twenty-Four: Vira

Chapter Twenty-Five: Kaleb

Chapter Twenty-Six: Vira

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Riya

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Ronak

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Vira

Chapter Thirty: Kaleb

Chapter Thirty-One: Ronak

Chapter Thirty-Two: Riya

Chapter Thirty-Three: Vira

Chapter Thirty-Four: Kaleb

Chapter Thirty-Five: Ronak

Chapter Thirty-Six: Vira

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Riya

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Ronak

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Vira

Chapter Forty: Kaleb

Chapter Forty-One: Riya

Chapter Forty-Two: Riya

Chapter Forty-Three: Vira

Chapter Forty-Four: Ronak

Chapter Forty-Five: Kaleb

Chapter Forty-Six: Riya

Chapter Forty-Seven: Vira

Chapter Forty-Eight: Ronak

Chapter Forty-Nine: Kaleb

Chapter Fifty: Riya

Chapter Fifty-One: Kaleb

Chapter Fifty-Two: Vira

Chapter Fifty-Three: Ronak

Chapter Fifty-Four: Riya

Chapter Fifty-Five: Kaleb

Chapter Fifty-Six: Vira

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter One

— Vira —

THE DEAD BOY’S face was as gray as a cloudy sky moments before a storm. His short black beard sculpted and whittled his cheeks down to a point. Thin lips glittered in the watery moonlight that managed to penetrate the canopy, brighter than the famed rubies of his home province.

But Vira knew it was blood that made them shine so enticingly.

She lifted the flameless lantern higher. The ball of yellow light within crackled with magic as it washed over his embroidered sleeve, illuminating the row of silver fish encircling his wrist. A wave of nausea hit her. The crest of Onaar.

The scouts hadn’t been wrong. This was her betrothed—Lord Harish, son of the Viceroy of Onaar—now dead in the city of Dvar.

Vira’s legs wobbled as she rose from her crouch. But she steadied herself. A maharani didn’t show weakness. She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders before turning to face the warriors who had found the body.

Three girls stood in a row, dressed in matching red kurtas and loose black pants, whispering to one another. One leaned against a neem tree, propped up by a shoulder, using the edge of a knife to file her fingernails. She straightened and nudged the others when she realized they’d garnered Vira’s attention.

Where’s his horse? Vira’s voice rang out sharper than she intended.

The girl with the knife, who looked barely older than Vira herself, toyed with the end of her braid. There wasn’t one around here, Maharani.

And his convoy?

He didn’t appear to be traveling with one.

Vira bit back a snarl. These warriors—ones her Council had claimed were the best in the country—were obviously missing something critical: common sense. "Lord Harish did not journey here on foot with no mount and no supplies. Find them."

For a moment Vira thought the warriors would refuse. But then they bowed in unison, palms pressed together in front of their chests, before scattering into the woods without another glance behind them.

Wind raked through the Swapna Forest, and leaves from the mango and neem trees cascaded down, enveloping Vira in a cocoon of green and brown. Now that she was alone, an uncomfortable lurch tugged at her stomach.

She looked down at Harish again. His kurta was light enough in color to reveal the three pools of blood that had killed him. An arrow pierced the center of each red stain, black feather fletchings quivering in the late-summer breeze.

He was to have arrived at the palace days earlier, but there had been no letter, no news of a delay. And when he hadn’t shown up, she’d assumed that he was a reluctant noble plotting an escape from a marriage he wanted even less than she did. She hadn’t expected this.

This wasn’t the plan. It wasn’t how any of this was meant to happen. She couldn’t face the Viceroy of Onaar. She couldn’t face her Council. She couldn’t—

Breathe.

Reason broke through her haze of panic as her mother’s voice sounded in her head.

A maharani never runs away from a problem. She faces it head-on.

She could picture her mother’s severe face as if she were standing right there, hissing the same lessons in Vira’s ear a thousand times, not expecting Vira to retain any of them.

Face it head-on.

Find out who killed Harish—quickly. Guards had already been dispatched through the forest and the surrounding neighborhoods of Dvar, searching for witnesses, for any clues that might lead them to a suspect. But it had been more than an hour since the scouts had reported the body. If the guards hadn’t yet found the killer, Vira had a sinking feeling that they never would.

Find a way to appease the viceroy. It would be only a matter of days before he learned of his son’s fate—a precious few days in which Vira had to strike a new deal with him or find some other way to protect the country from Lyria, their northwestern neighbor. Lyria hadn’t made a move in months, but the threat of the war she’d inherited had been a constant shadow lingering over Vira’s rule from the moment she’d become the maharani eight months earlier.

How do I do this, Amma?

But her mother had never offered comfort even when she was alive.

Vira’s hand drifted down to the iron hilt of the talwar strapped to her waist, as if it would give her strength. It had been pried from her dead mother’s stiff hands and thrust into hers. It was polished and sharp, the curved silver blade gleaming, as if it had never been covered in the blood of her ancestors. It hummed against her hand with latent magic, a demanding buzz that Vira was still unaccustomed to.

In truth, everything about the talwar was unfamiliar—the weight, the balance, even the elaborate designs carved into the hilt. This is a maharani’s weapon was the only response she’d received when she fought to keep the one she’d trained with for years. That weapon was simple, elegant, comfortable. But because it hadn’t been forged with magic, it now hung on the wall opposite her bed, mounted there as a reminder of the life she’d left behind.

At the sound of rustling, Vira turned to the shadows, her talwar drawn. Its magic grated against her palm, harsh and unforgiving, as her hand trembled. The blade glowed white, crackling with sparks of lightning as she braced herself for the return of Harish’s killer.

But it was Amrit who stepped out of the trees. Vira’s grip relaxed, the magic waned, and blood rushed back into her fingers. She shoved the talwar into its sheath, trying to ignore the weight of her mother’s ever-present judgment.

A maharani’s talwar is an extension of her rule.

She couldn’t even hold a talwar. How could she expect to hold on to her country?

You should have waited for me. Leaves crunched under Amrit’s feet as he crossed the length of the clearing, walking toward her. A dull shard of moonlight illuminated his angular face. He hadn’t changed out of his formal guard attire, and a thick silver bangle wrapped around the silk sleeve of his upper left arm. She couldn’t see it from where she stood, but she knew there was a medallion in the center that was stamped with a swan—a sign of his rank and service to the royal family.

Contrary to what the Council believes, I can protect myself against a few wild deer, she said.

Vira kept her voice light, but her mouth burned with the bitter aftertaste of the lie. She hadn’t been able to wield a blade with a steady hand since the battle at Ritsar eight months before. Not since she’d failed to command Ashoka’s armies to victory. Not since she’d lost Ashokan land for the first time in four hundred years.

Not since she’d erred so badly, the viceroys of two provinces had walked out of her Council, taking with them countless troops and resources she desperately needed.

Amrit looked at her, and for the span of a heartbeat she was certain he could see right through her. She hadn’t told him—told anyone—about the nightmares, about the way her hand shook each time she had to draw her weapon. But Amrit sometimes seemed to know her better than she knew herself.

I should certainly hope so, he said. I did train you, after all.

And what a great student she had turned out to be, freezing in battle, letting innocent citizens die in her stead.

You were busy. And I wasn’t recognized. Vira gestured to herself. With her plain red kurta and simple braid, she could have been twin to any one of those careless warriors. She’d even taken off all her jewelry except for the thin gold chain she always wore around her neck, the small pendant hidden beneath her collar.

Amrit gave her an exasperated look. That’s precisely what concerns me. You don’t have to do this alone, Vira.

Vira. Yet another thing her mother would have disapproved of. Amrit was the captain of her guard now, but he’d been her friend first. And she hadn’t been able to bear the thought of him calling her Maharani and bowing to her with deference. No, this one small thing was a reminder that not everything was different. That there were still some parts of her the title of maharani couldn’t strip away.

Amrit crouched before the body. This is bad.

The Council won’t be happy. That was an understatement. It would be a miracle if the Council was anything short of furious.

They’re your elders, Vira. They don’t want to take orders from an eighteen-year-old. You have to charm them.

Pretty words woo councilors, not angry demands, Vira recited. Another saying her mother had drilled into her head. But frustration laced her voice. She wasn’t her mother. She didn’t have the gift of pretty words.

Even the alliance with the Viceroy of Onaar had been difficult to negotiate. The engagement to Harish had been a last-ditch strategy to convince the viceroy to return to serve on the Council, to lend his province’s troops and considerable wealth to secure the western border. But it had always been shortsighted, a temporary solution meant to delay the mounting problems. Because it wasn’t armies that Ashoka needed. It was magic.

Vira reached up to grip her pendant, her thumb tracing the familiar, comforting grooves of the image carved into the gold coin: twin blades crossed over a lotus. Magic was how Ashoka had maintained its independence over the last five hundred years. Magic that was mined from the quarry beneath the palace—a source of raw power, inherently useless until the mayaka, those who worked with magic, processed and used it to forge items of immense power.

Magic was woven into the very fabric of Ashokan society. It was threaded into the currency—into the skinny seyrs and square tolahs and gold jhaus, ensuring that they couldn’t be forged. It was laced into every brick that made up the border walls, shielding and protecting the country from intruders. It powered their carriages, their lamps, their messages. It was even Ashoka’s biggest export, traded to Lyria and other countries for painted pottery and plush rugs, for medicines and crops not found in Ashoka.

Or it had been. Trade had stalled months ago, the bustling ports and endless caravans already a fading memory. The Emperor of Lyria was convinced that Ashoka was hoarding all the magic they had. But that wasn’t why Vira hadn’t renegotiated the trade agreements.

It was because there was no magic left to trade.

It was her biggest secret: the horrible truth of just how little was left in the quarry. Magic waned with use, and without regular replenishment, Ashoka’s magical borders were already wavering. And if Vira couldn’t protect Ashoka against invaders, there would be no Ashoka for her to defend.

Look, Amrit said, tilting Harish’s chin. Purple veins spidered down the dead man’s neck and chest, disappearing into his kurta. Poison, likely.

Amrit yanked out the arrow embedded in Harish’s stomach, turning it over in his hand before holding it out for Vira to see. The arrowhead wasn’t flat and notched, like the ones she’d used in her brief and catastrophic attempts at wielding a bow. This one was conical, the metal twisting in half a spiral. It was beautifully elegant, and unlike anything she’d ever seen. But judging from the look on Amrit’s face, he had.

You know who killed him, Vira said.

Amrit hesitated and then nodded once. I can guess.

Who?

He said nothing for a long moment. In the distance, a mynah bird trilled. Another one answered its song. Later, he promised. We should move the body before—

Amrit—

A twig snapped.

What was that? Vira’s hand slid to her talwar as she turned. And froze.

Three figures stood several feet away, arrows nocked and aimed. They had dupattas wrapped around their faces, covering their mouths and noses, masking their identities.

Amrit stepped in front of her, talwar drawn.

The boy in the middle spoke. Put down your weapons, intruders. We have you surrounded.

As proof, an arrow whistled from behind, traveling over Vira’s head to lodge in a tree trunk in front of her. She whirled around, her heart racing as she scanned the dark tree line for invisible figures.

Who are you? Amrit demanded, not lowering his weapon.

"Who are we? the boy mocked. I’m surprised you don’t recognize us. We recognize you. Guard." The word was spat out like a curse.

There was only one group of people who were arrogant enough to expect their reputation to precede them, who would dare speak the word guard with such hatred.

Ravens, Vira breathed. The boy’s eyes snapped to her. She stepped out from behind Amrit. You’re thieves, not killers.

Stories of bandits who lived within the Swapna Forest and robbed merchants and travelers and anyone associated with the crown had been circulating for years. The Ravens, as they called themselves, had pledged to fight against the maharani long before Vira had ever taken the throne. Another war she’d inherited from her mother.

The boy pointedly glanced at Harish’s crumpled body. Clearly, the same cannot be said for you.

We didn’t kill him. Vira let go of her hold on the talwar, raising both her hands to showcase her empty palms.

The boy was unmoved. That may very well be. But your fate is a matter for our leader.

Desperation drove her forward. You don’t und—

The figures drew their bowstrings back. Vira stopped.

Make no mistake— The boy’s voice was sharper than a blade. "We don’t like to kill, but if you run, we will hunt you." This wasn’t a warning. It was a guarantee.

Vira blinked, licking her lips once. Twice. They were outnumbered. She glanced at Amrit, and she could see him coming to the same conclusion. He lowered his weapon.

Her breaths came out in small, shallow pants as thick gray smoke suddenly swirled around them—curling around her knees, snaking around her waist and chest.

Amrit coughed. Vi— He coughed harder as the fog enveloped him.

Vira’s eyes watered. Amrit?

The smoke burned down her throat, her lungs, her stomach. She gasped for breath. She coughed, too, reaching for Amrit. But there was only air. She couldn’t see anything. Or hear. Or . . . think.

She had . . . she had to find . . . Amrit.

Vira fell to her knees. Dirt coated her hands, lodging under her fingernails. Her arms could no longer hold her up. The faintest scent of neem clung to the air.

And then there was only darkness.

Chapter Two

— Riya —

THERE WAS SOMETHING sacrilegious about breaking into a temple.

Riya wasn’t exactly the praying type, yet discomfort prickled along the back of her neck as she peered through the grime-streaked window of the priestess’s room. Corrupt priestess, Riya reminded herself, who was stealing from people. That made the impiety a little better.

Or at least she hoped it did.

Riya leaned in, standing on her tiptoes. Her bare feet were already numb and aching from the cold stone slabs that made up the interior of the temple. Someone had washed the courtyard after the last visitors had gone, leaving wet patches to dry. Patches Riya hadn’t noticed until after she’d stepped in a puddle of icy water. She’d shrieked loud enough to rouse the goddesses themselves—or at least that’s what Kavita had snapped as she dragged Riya out of sight of the entrance.

Somehow, Riya’s quip, At least now we know the temple really is empty, hadn’t appeased Kavita.

Riya cupped her hands around her face to block the glare of the flickering torch behind her. The glass defiantly reflected her own dark eyes, and she pulled away, frustrated.

It’s no use, Kavs. I can’t see a thing.

Kavita tilted her head to one side, a hand on her hip and a crooked smile at her lips. It was the Kavita standard just before she said something she thought was especially clever. "Did you expect we’d find an open door and a thieves welcome here sign? Or maybe you’d like to scream again and see if the goddesses want to lend a hand."

Can you be serious?

This was supposed to be a brief reconnaissance mission to find out whether the rumors were true—whether the priestess actually was stealing and selling the jewels and idols that the few pious citizens left in the city of Dvar were donating to the temple. But so far it had been neither short nor fruitful.

Kavita looked the very picture of boredom, leaning against the wall, flipping and twirling a knife between her fingers with enviable deftness. Come on, Riya. This is a waste of time. We should be with the others.

Kavita had a point. The Ravens were thieves, not vigilantes; this wasn’t what they did.

Things had been shifting in Ashoka for a long while now. Jobs were declining. The ports were empty more often than not. And then the maharani had raised taxes inexplicably, taking even more from citizens who had far too little—chipping away at the remnants of their purses, scraping away the last of their hope.

Many blamed Maharani Vira for the way their fortunes had turned, but Riya knew that the people of Ashoka had been struggling even before Vira ascended to the throne. Before Maharani Shanti had been killed. Before war had broken out in Ritsar and armies had been pulled from their training bases and sent to the Lyrian border.

Those who could had fled the country in search of better opportunities. But there were many who couldn’t afford the journey—and many who didn’t want to leave their homeland, in good times or bad.

That was who the Ravens helped, the ones the goddesses and maharanis had forsaken. They made sure the people had enough money in their pockets after the tax collectors came around—sometimes twice in the same month—even if it meant stealing it back from the maharani herself. That’s where the other Ravens were: breaking into the carriage that transported the collected taxes to the Dvar Fort.

Yash asked us to do this, Riya reminded Kavita.

That earned her an eye roll. You volunteered, Kavita said. The only one to volunteer, might I add.

We help people.

We help the poor, Kavita amended. For all we know, the priestess is selling donations because that’s the only way for her to pay the collectors. In case you haven’t noticed, priestesses aren’t in high demand these days.

No job is in high demand, Riya said. But she’s deceiving people. They think their donations are going to the goddesses. To help . . . I don’t know, ensure that their prayers are heard quicker.

Kavita snorted. That’s not how prayer works.

That’s not the point. Faith is all that some people have left. Shouldn’t we help them preserve it?

Vaishali’s bones, Ri.

Look, you didn’t hear that poor lady begging us to find out what happened to the lamps she donated.

Oh, and you did?

Well, no. But Yash—

Kavita smirked. The rest of us aren’t so swayed by his beautiful eyes and chiseled jaw.

Riya flushed. "This isn’t about . . . that."

Kavita had been with the Ravens since she was a child, so she didn’t get it. For Riya, it was different when Yash asked. He’d been the one who’d found her stumbling through the forest—who’d taken her in and given her a home. A purpose.

A familiar ache settled between her ribs at the thought of the Ravens. Kavita called it love, but Riya couldn’t imagine that love would be so terrifyingly painful, so overwhelmingly intoxicating. They were her family, her entire life, and some days it felt as if there was nothing she wouldn’t do, no line she wouldn’t cross to keep it that way.

Some part of her still wanted to show Yash just how grateful she was. She was on his side no matter what. He could trust her—with his secrets, with his life. And maybe if she went above and beyond, he would finally see that she wasn’t the helpless girl he’d rescued.

Riya huffed as she caught sight of Kavita’s grin. Can you focus, please? Riya asked, wanting to change the subject.

Kavita’s amusement faded into exasperation. There’s nothing to focus on. The door’s locked with magic. Unless you plan to burn your fingers picking it, we should leave before the priestess comes back.

She wasn’t wrong. Mayaka-forged locks burned to the touch if anything but the matching key was inserted. Trying to force their way in would be a painful waste of time. But maybe there was another way. If Riya recalled the layout of the temple correctly, the rooms on this side of the hall overlooked the courtyard. Which meant—

There’s a window on the other side.

Kavita groaned. You’re being stubborn.

You mean passionate.

Kavita’s head thudded against the wall.

Come on, Riya urged. We’ve come this far. If there’s no window, I swear we can leave. Kavita didn’t move. "And I’ll buy you a full plate of khandvi."

It took a moment for Kavita to react to the mention of her favorite snack from her home province of Ravas. But then her fingers stopped moving, and she slid the dagger into the folds of the dupatta wrapped around her waist. She pushed away from the wall with an exaggerated sigh and gestured for Riya to lead the way. I’ll get the khandvi myself, thanks. Your taste in Ravasi food is abysmal.

My taste is fine. You just want an excuse to flirt with the girls who run the stalls.

Kavita’s dimples glinted in the dusty light. Not all of us are lucky enough to be in love.

I’m not—oh, Kausalya help me.

Riya made her way toward the small balcony opposite the stairwell. Below them was the back courtyard of the temple. Uneven stone slabs spread out across the square, weeds and grass sprouting from cracks left unattended through the years. In the center, behind a tulsi plant, was a neglected altar to a forgotten goddess. The iron gate they’d scaled to enter the temple was to the left, but the heavy chains coiled around the bars ensured that it wasn’t a functional door. The real temple entrance was somewhere to the right, beyond the building that housed the altars to the three goddesses. Though perhaps building was a loose interpretation. It was nothing more than a sea of carved stone pillars that held up the pyramid-shaped gopuram tower.

The railing of the balcony pressed into Riya’s stomach as she leaned over the edge. Window. She pointed triumphantly.

You win, Kavita said dryly.

Riya sized up the wall. It was weatherworn, with enough crevices to provide plenty of finger- and footholds. It would be easy to climb, even without the stone eagle perched helpfully between the balcony and the ledge below the priestess’s window. She hoisted herself up onto the railing, a hand gripping the wall to steady herself.

In the distance, the glimmering lights of the Dvar Fort rose above the city—a glittering beacon visible from every street. It was magic that made those lanterns burn unnaturally bright. Magic the maharani and her Council hoarded in their quarry while her people struggled to survive in the streets.

Those lights were meant to be reassuring, a comforting reminder of the maharani’s power and protection. To Riya, it was a constant reminder of all the ways in which the maharanis had failed Ashoka.

She took a deep breath, anticipation pooling in her stomach. And then she leapt.

She landed lightly, her hands wrapping around the eagle’s head while her bare feet found purchase in the stone beneath the talons. She slid a leg onto the ledge, testing it before she swung herself onto it fully. Wind whipped strands of hair into her face as she ran a hand over the padlock that held the shutters together. No magic, thank the goddesses.

Riya slid the mayaka-forged silver hoop earrings out of her earlobes and unwound the circles into long, thin lock picks. Within seconds, the lock clicked open. Riya landed on the floor of the priestess’s empty room with a soft thump. She whistled—two trills, like the chirp of a mynah bird. The Ravens’ all clear signal. Seconds later, Kavita swung in after her, as quiet as a cat, closing the window and sealing them into the room.

Kavita withdrew a small rock from her pocket, bathing them in a soft orange glow. Riya surveyed the room. It was a bedroom and an office—and thoroughly impersonal on both counts. A single cot was flush against a wall, next to a wooden chest. On the other side, a rickety desk was covered in stacks of ledgers and books.

As Kavita drifted toward the desk, Riya made her way to the bed. Nothing under the mattress or wedged into the space between the cot and the wall. The chest was full of innocuous saris, petticoats, and blouses. She dropped to her knees and looked under the bed, sliding her arm underneath, waving it back and forth to see if it caught on anything.

Nothing. Riya sneezed twice. Unless you count dust.

I think I found something, Kavita said.

Riya picked herself up. What is it?

Kavita was thumbing through the pages of a ledger. What did that lady say she was missing again?

Uh . . . gold lamps with peacock ornaments on top. Riya peered over Kavita’s shoulder. Is that a list of who’s donated to the temple?

Kavita trailed the glowing stone down the list. Found it. Two peacock lamps for Vaishali’s altar.

Is there a record of who she’s selling them to?

Doesn’t look like it. Kavita flipped through the rest of the pages. Maybe there’s anoth—

The doorknob turned.

Riya dropped to the ground, pulling Kavita—and the ledger—down with her. Kavita gasped in shock as Riya clamped a hand over Kavita’s mouth and another around the rock. Half a second later, the door swung open.

Torchlight flitted in from the corridor, bright enough that even the slightest motion would lengthen their shadows and give them away. They were too far from the window to escape that way, and if the priestess came around to sit at her desk, she would trip over them before she ever reached for a quill.

Dread coiled in Riya’s stomach as she met Kavita’s panicked eyes.

The footsteps grew louder. Riya catalogued every twitch of shadow, every swish of cloth. Wind rattled the shutters, and Riya bit the inside of her cheek. The window was unlocked—all it would take was the right gust of wind, and it would blow open.

Next to her, Kavita shifted imperceptibly, drawing her dagger. Riya pulled her hand away from Kavita’s mouth, her movements slow and smooth as she reached for her own weapon. Familiarity surged through her as her fingers curved around the patterned metal hilt, a faint trace of magic still clinging to it from when her mayaka father had forged it.

The dagger was the only thing that remained of her old life. It had been her constant—and sometimes only—protector since she’d left home two years earlier. But even that did little to curb the fear surging through her frozen body.

But acting on fear was for amateurs. No, Riya had surprise on her side. She would wait until the priestess approached the desk and . . . angle in through the stomach and then up. Piercing her heart. Or lungs. It was certain death.

Or so she’d been told.

There was always a price to pay for taking someone’s life—her father had told her that the day he’d given her the dagger. She’d thought about this so often over the years that she could recall his exact words, the precise inflections of his deep, somber voice.

You may not see it now, my dear Riya, but every act of violence bears a cost. Some things leave a physical scar. A cut. A burn. Those can fade with time. But some acts, like taking a life—those leave a mark on your soul.

And those never disappear.

But those rules belonged to another life, to another girl she’d left behind. A dagger in her hand and