The eternal fire of the sun god Oatle burned in the middle of the temple, playing shadows over sandstone walls. Its light reflected across the rippling waters of the sacred spring dedicated to his twin goddess, Phiias, who ruled the universe alongside him. Ten minutes ago, after paying the holy brazier and spring her customary respects upon entering the temple, Serai had rolled the light, manual chair she used for inaccessible areas in front of a different goddess’ alter. Her stump was still smarting as it got used to her new prosthetic, and Serai wanted to pray in comfort.

Leigaba—the heavenly lady of bounty, kindness, and charity—had been a guiding light for Serai since her childhood. Usually, supplicants would kneel at her alter. Instead, Taras had lifted Serai from her chair and helped her settle in to a seated position with her leg curled under her as an approximation. After checking that Serai was comfortable, the maid had walked off to pray to her own patron gods.

No matter how Serai racked her brain, she could not find the right words for her prayers. An expression of infinite understanding was fixed on the goddess’ round face: patience carved into the lines of her closed eyes and her plump lips forever curved into a gentle smile. Stone bumblebees—divine messengers that none had encountered since the age of the Gods—curled around the goddess’ shapely thighs as she knelt, hands extended with gifts to those below her.

Yet, Serai wasn’t deriving the peace and clarity of mind a visit to her patron usually brought. Perhaps it was the way that the shadows of the brazier threw half of Leigaba’s face into darkness, turning the serene set of her brows into melancholy. Perhaps Serai was still too rattled by the encounter with Erol, two days ago, to concentrate. Whatever the cause, this attempt to meditate had been unsuccessful and she’d had about enough of being scrunched on the floor.

Serai shifted her weight and tried to peer around the sides of her veil to look for Taras. Each of the six alters rested in its own alcove that branched off from the High Twins’ anti-chamber, but going between those alters left one exposed to curious eyes. Though Taras wasn’t visible, Serai could probably extend her parting supplication for long enough to catch the maid on her next trip between alters.

“For our great lady of bounty,” Serai intoned. “Please accept the meagre sacrifice of an unworthy supplicant, for I have failed to live up to your teachings.” Frustration warred in Serai’s chest as she considered how to word her apology. No one knew when a deity might be listening to one particular edifice over another. “That which I can give no longer seems to be sufficient and,” she pressed her lips together, “what is asked of me, I do not have the strength to provide.” From what Ferda had told Serai, her charities were no longer filling the gaps in food supplies, much less stemming the mounting tensions between the disparate ethnic communities in the slums, as she’d hoped they would.  

Serai drew in a breath and held her hand over the central candle. As her skin heated to an uncomfortable temperature, Serai whispered her final prayer. “Please, grant this lost fool the strength to make the sacrifices necessary to better this world.” Her hand twitched from the heat and Serai held in a hiss as she drew it back. Asking a deity for favor always invited disaster, unless one showed their sincerity. Usually, this meant bringing a marker of a deed done in the deity’s name, (or an expensive offering, for a more materialistic deity) but Serai hadn’t expected to make any request today. Pain was the most readily available alternative for displaying her determination.

 The princess took a breath to compose herself then tilted her head to see if Taras was visible. She jolted when she found her paramour standing ready at the mouth of Leigaba’s alcove. Serai blinked, turned her head to hide her blush, and said the traditional words for a polite exeunt from a holy alter. Once she was finished, Serai raised her head and Taras was at her side, helping her back into her chair. Neither of them said a word as they bowed their heads to the Twins, then left the worship chamber.

It took until the two had left the women’s temple and were walking around the enclosed garden out front for Taras to speak. “You finished your prayers earlier than normal today.”

Serai raised an eyebrow and rubbed the palm of her hand. “I could say the same, darling. Did you pay all the respects you wished to?”

“Well enough. No one will be able to call me impious at least.” Taras shrugged and maneuvered Serai’s chair around a rock in the path. “You were pretty agitated when you came in, so I’d been listening for the beginnings of your parting prayer. I wanted to be ready when you decided to leave.”

Serai’s eyebrows twitched upward. “You completed your supplications in the proper manner, correct?” Taras nodded and the princess let out a sigh of relief. Not only was breaking off one’s prayers abruptly an insult to the gods, it also left a black mark on one’s social record. “I didn’t interrupt you, did I?”

“I got the prayers to Phiias and Uraura done first,” Taras assured. The great healer and humanity’s guiding star: both protectors in their own ways. Such a choice matched Taras’ nature. Serai craned her neck to smile up at her paramour, which Taras returned. “The supplication to Onaha was a little shorter than I’d like, though.”

“My apologies for interrupting your time with the Master of War.” Serai pressed her lips together for just a moment before placing her hand over where Taras gripped the handles of her chair. “I didn’t know you still went to his alter.” The chair ran over a crack in the pavement, jostling them both.

Sadness drifted over Taras’ face before disappearing into careful neutrality. “Old habits die hard,” she said. Serai nodded and turned away so Taras wouldn’t see her embarrassment. She had thought that Taras had long deprioritized her family’s patron, as her parents had done to her, but perhaps that had been a foolish conclusion. After all, nothing unearthed a childish desire to be accepted and loved like one’s family. Even in the most hopeless of circumstances. Serai should have recognized the potential sore point and kept silent.

“Well,” Serai’s gaze darted around for something to break the tension and landed on one of the ornate stained-glass windows in the temple’s outer wall. “How has your recent project been progressing? Do you require more copper?”

“Got plenty of scrap to work with.” Taras shook her head. “What I do need is more blue dye.” She nudged Serai’s shoulder and grinned. “I’m working on a special piece of jewelry for the Ruya festival.” Along with Serai’s pin, several of Taras’ other creations already adorned the princess’ wrists, ankle, and neck. Despite the cheap metal and tinted glass Taras insisted on using, each stunning piece was made with exquisite care. Malek liked to fuss over how such lowly materials were beneath a princess, but Serai always ignored him. Aside from council days, when image was her only armor, Taras’ gifts never left Serai’s skin except to sleep.

“I shall await your next masterpiece with bated breath.” Serai said smiling back. She settled back into her chair, glad that her accidental harm had been smoothed over.

In Serai’s darker moments, the princess wondered why Taras stayed by her side. Being stuck as the lone maid of anyone wasn’t exactly the most prestigious of positions, and serving Serai often put Taras into direct contact with her family. In any other family, a gentle soul that refused to kill would be a virtue. However, the Abate family were expected to stand atop Shenait’s martial hierarchy as War Speakers and royal bodyguards.

Yuna Abate, Taras’ mother, had long stood as the success story for Woromiran immigrants that both shone as hope for future cooperation, and silenced voices that resisted assimilation into the greater Shenaise whole. Her children were given no option other to continue her legacy, for everyone’s survival. When it was discovered that Taras had been relying on Ferda to complete the bloodier parts of her bodyguard training, Taras’ mother had swept Taras out of sight like desert dust after a bad storm.

While Taras’ jewelry was cheaply made, it was of high enough quality that the woman could make a decent living off selling it in the middle-class areas of the bazar. Ferda had even remarked outright that, “the secretaries would love this shit.” As much as Serai loved Taras, she knew that the sharpness of her own tongue sometimes turned on the ones she most cared for. If she wanted, Taras could move away from her family’s disappointment, from the inglorious work, and from Serai’s failings. She was beautiful enough to find another, better lover while she prospered.

If Taras left, she’d be ripping out a piece of Serai’s heart to take with her. And, Ferda might go with her. Serai would be left alone.

She’d been left alone before, and once was enough.