Twelve lashes. Fifteen. Twenty.
Her voice failed somewhere around the eighteenth stroke. After that she merely shook, her mouth stretched open in silent anguish, her back a ruin of golden wounds that smoked in the perfumed air. The white shift was tatters now, soaked through with something that might have been blood or might have been light.
Every instinct screamed at me to go to her. To kneel beside her broken body and offer—what? Comfort? Apology? As if either could undo what had just been done. But I couldn't move. A princess didn't rush to the side of a marked girl. Didn't show weakness, didn't question the priests, didn't make a spectacle that would only bring more scrutiny down on both of us. Going to her wouldn't help. It would only make things worse.
The guilt burned in my throat like bile.
"Purified," Osman announced. "She will require time to heal, but she shall emerge stronger. Purer."
I did not hear the rest. Did not hear anything save the roaring in my ears and the echoes of Yara's screams as I turned and walked toward the nearest exit.
Behind me, the drums resumed. The next child was being brought forward.
I reached a servant's corridor before I doubled over and retched.
* * *
I found refuge in the Golden Bazaar three days later.
The market sprawled across the eastern quarter of the palace grounds—a labyrinth of silk-draped stalls where I could lose myself among merchants who knew nothing of purification ceremonies or the sound a child made when divine light carved through her flesh.
I always felt at peace at the market, but despite the brightness from the sun, the tension was palpable. People were glancing around nervously at the Light Court guards that patrolled the streets. This didn't feel right, and I should have questioned my father about it, but lately he never had time for me.
I had not slept well since Yara. I had not eaten. I needed to feel normal. Even if only for an hour.
I was examining a bolt of silk from Kizi when raised voices shattered my fragile peace.
"—and I am telling you, the ceremonies are a farce!"
Ferit. My cousin Ferit, drunk before midday, swaying near the central fountain. His face was flushed, his voice growing louder with each passing minute.
"They purify servants and half-bloods, yes, but what of the real threat? What of the shadows that have crept into the highest halls of power?"
Passersby were beginning to stare. A few nobles paused their browsing, drawn by the spectacle. I noticed Sarp standing nearby with an expression of polite concern—and at the crowd's edge, Hakan watched with cold, calculating eyes.
"Ferit, perhaps you should—" one of his companions began.
"I should what? Stay silent while traitors compromise our security?" Ferit laughed bitterly. "High Lord Volkan walks these streets every day, pretending to care about the realm's protection. But where are the increased patrols he promised? Where are the stricter border controls? Why do shadow sympathizers still walk freely among us?"
My blood ran cold. This was dangerous talk—far more dangerous than drunken rambling.
"Ferit," I said, pushing through the crowd toward him. "Lower your voice?—"
"Why?" He spread his arms wide, playing to the gathering crowd. "Everyone knows it. Volkan is either incompetent or complicit! The Divine Council has failed us! They speak of light and protection while shadows spread through our court like rot through?—"
"Lord Ferit."
The voice cut through the marketplace like a blade.
High Lord Volkan materialized from the crowd, his silver robes immaculate, his ancient face carved from stone.
"High Lord." Ferit went pale, wine-flush draining to gray. "I was merely?—"
"You were merely questioning my competence before half the market." Volkan's gaze swept over the gathered witnesses—the merchants, the nobles, the servants who had paused their work to watch. "You were suggesting the Divine Council itself has been compromised by shadow influence."
"I did not mean—I was not?—"
"You were speaking treason." The words fell like stones. "In public. Before witnesses. While clearly intoxicated.”
