Her father would live.
And maybe, someday, if she proved herself worthy, if she stopped Kinok—if she made things better for Ayla’s Kind, for every human in Zulla . . . maybe she could have what Queen Junn had with that human man.
Maybe she could be with—
She turned the necklace over in her hands, examining the deep-red stone for the thousandth time. Moonlight slid across the wall of her bedchamber, catching on the gold threads in the tapestry of Kiera. It was far past the middle of the night. She hadn’t slept properly in—five days, maybe more. She should sleep.
Or.
Without letting herself think too closely about what she was about to do, Crier reached up and pulled one of the pins from her hair. It was a pretty thing, a little white flower made from pearls with two jade leaves. More importantly, the end was sharp. It was easy, easier each time, to deliberately prick her finger hard enough to draw blood.
She pressed her bloody finger to the red stone at the heart of the pendant, and once again the world smeared like paint around her, colors dripping down the walls.
When she opened her eyes, she was still in her bedchamber.
Crier frowned and sat up, confused—and realized immediately that while she was sitting in a bed in the dark, this wasn’t her bed. It wasn’t her bedchamber, either, but one much smaller. The walls were rough mud brick, not stone, and there were no bookshelves, no tapestries, nothing but a hearth, a small table, a wooden chest in one corner.
As always, Crier wasn’t alone. There were two women sitting on the stone lip of the hearth. Crier recognized one of them as Si—Siena, the laughing girl from the woods. She looked maybe a few years older, a few years more mature, her dark hair tied back in a braid instead of loose and wild around her face. There was a heaviness to her shoulders that had not existed in the forest.
The other woman with her was not human.
But not Automa, either.
Crier stared at her, fascinated. Not Automa, no, but close. An early prototype? The girl sitting with Siena was beautiful in a way that seemed almost grotesque. Her features were too symmetrical, and all of them were slightly too exaggerated: eyes a little too big, nose a little too thin, lips a little too red. She looked, oddly, like a very beautiful bird. Her skin was tan, her hair the color of dark honey and falling in curls to the small of her back. Her cheeks were artificially pink. Crier moved closer, aware that neither girl would be able to see or hear her. She crept across the floor to stand behind Siena so she could see the not-Automa girl’s face even better.
The firelight was kind to her inhuman features, adding warmth and softness to the sharp lines of her cheekbones and jaw. Her eyes were bright gold. Even in shadow, even in the flickering half-light of the fire, they were bright gold. And yet they looked so dull—like the blank eyes of a porcelain doll. Or a dead animal. The longer Crier looked at the girl, the more she realized the biggest difference between herself and this creation: Crier had a mind, a heart, her own thoughts. This girl did not. She was a beautiful vessel, but an empty one.
It didn’t seem to stop Siena from caring for her, though. Siena was pulling a comb through the girl’s long hair, brushing it out with gentle movements. There was nothing but fondness on Siena’s face, a peaceful, proud sort of love.
Crier was so caught up with watching them that it took her a moment to realize that there was someone else in the room.
Leo.
He was sitting in the corner, far from the warmth and light of the fire. He had a pair of leather boots and a tin of boot polish in his lap, but it looked like he hadn’t moved for a long time. He was sitting stock-still. Like Crier, he was also watching Siena and the Made girl. He didn’t seem so fascinated, though. He looked . . . pained. Almost jealous. Of what?
As Crier watched Leo, she was struck by a wave of—emotion. It was like the very first memory she’d fallen into, the burning city, when she’d felt Leo’s blinding terror like it was her own. It wasn’t terror this time, but something quieter. Subtler. A pang of longing, deepening when Siena set the comb down and