CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: ANARYA

She told Veer that night.

Not about Kael. Not about the love that lived in the space between them like a held breath. She told him about the Yantra, about the plan, about what she was going to do.

He listened. The way he always listened — carefully, completely, without interruption.

When she finished, he said: "You might die down there — you understand that, don't you?"

"Yes, I understand it with every cell in my rapidly-mortal body."

"And the baby?"

She felt the words like a blow. The baby. Seven months along now. Moving inside her — she could feel the kicks, the turns, the small restless life that was building itself from her body's resources the way the amrita had built itself from stolen praana. Except this — this was given. This was chosen. This was hers.

"I have to do this," she said. "If I don't — if the Yantra breaks on its own—"

"Everyone dies. I know." He took her hands. His hands were calloused now — the hands of a man who had learned to work without wings, without magic, without the thousand small privileges that being Gandharva had given him. "I'm not asking you not to do it. I'm asking you to come back."

"I'll try."

"Try harder." His voice broke. Just slightly. Just enough for her to see the crack in him, the place where the calm man and the terrified husband met. "I can't do this without you, Anarya. This—" He touched her belly. Gentle. His palm flat against the curve of their child. "I can't do this alone."

She covered his hand with hers.

"I'll come back," she said.

She meant it. She didn't know if it was true.