The Emperor turned to her. And he smiled.
It was the same smile he had given Jolthar at the start — warm, generous, almost tender. The most dangerous weapon in the room.
"Of what, Mandaqini? Of tradition? We are an Empire built on the bones of a hundred traditions. We break them when they no longer serve us. Of propriety? A man of Count Kaezhlar's stature — his proven stature — deserves more than convention. He has fought gods. He has killed what our armies could not. And you would deny him a wife?"
"I would deny him two —"
"I have two, actually more than two. A strong man can have any number of women he wants. He needs to have them."
The Emperor's smile widened.
"You are my First Empress. Dayamati is my Second. The Empire has not crumbled. The temples have not burned. The sun continues to rise."
He reached out and took Mandaqini's hand — gently, publicly, a gesture of intimacy that was also, unmistakably, a leash.
