Ramún didn’t know how long he’d been lying on the woolen blankets. He had no appetite; he didn’t even try to leave the room. He only waited, and kept waiting, praying to Kanchi and Tutayaq and the Great Condor to protect him and Iliyan.

A knock on the door made the warrior standing guard step aside, and the door opened.

“Young Master Ramún is summoned by Lord Wakuntur,” a servant said.

Ramún pushed himself upright. It felt as if stones had been stacked inside his body during the night; he could barely move. He wanted to crawl back into the blankets, to hide from the passing of time.

Be strong.

He pictured Iliyan’s determined look, felt the squeeze of his hand. Without paying attention to the two guards or the messenger, he took off his nightclothes and dressed. First his cotton undergarments, then the alpaca-wool poncho with blue fringes at the cuffs and hem. The poncho he pulled over it was looser, decorated with gold thread, feathers, and pearls. He fastened his shoulder-mantle with practiced ease, then strapped on his sandals.

Though he often felt that his ornate clothing cornered him, now he drew strength from it. You are a god’s son. You carry the blood of the gods. They can’t harm you. He repeated the words to himself until he reached the reception hall.

His parents sat straight-backed on their seats, his younger brother with them. He stared at the empty space where he was supposed to sit. Could he simply walk over there? Just as he took a step, a hand clasped his upper arm and pulled him aside, until he stood directly opposite his father. The place where the accused always stood, surrounded by warriors and other prominent villagers.

All at once, all his finery felt excessive, deceptive. He knelt like an ordinary man, stripped of privilege. Tears stung his eyes because his mistake wasn’t being corrected by a father; it was being declared a public shame.

From his kneeling position, he looked up at his father. He searched for compassion, for understanding, and found none.

“Ramún…” His father’s voice sounded warmer than expected, giving him a flicker of hope. A deep sigh blew it out again. “Troubling news has reached me. You exchanged the Holy Kiss with not only a lowborn, but a man at that. What do you have to say for yourself?”

He didn’t hesitate. Be strong. “It’s true, Father. I gave Iliyan my Kiss because… because I love him.”

A dead silence.

A silence that gave him a clearer sense of how many people had gathered than the murmuring before had done.

Father said nothing either.

Ramún lifted his gaze, letting it move from his father to his mother. His father looked shocked, as if it had never once occurred to him that Ramún might actually be guilty. His mother had a hand over her mouth, her face drained of color. And his brother… his brother was failing miserably at hiding a grin.

It was him. He told them.

“You cannot love a man, Ramún,” came his father’s voice at last. For a moment, it sounded like a parent speaking, not a ruler. “Not in that way. You have stained our family, and our valley, with such dishonor.”

Ramún bit his lip. He didn’t know what to say. How could he explain that kissing Iliyan had felt as natural as breathing? That it was something he couldn’t have stopped, something he had longed for with every part of himself?

“I’m sorry, Father,” he whispered. “I never meant to hurt anyone.”

Another deep sigh. His father lifted a hand and gestured aside. A moment later, two warriors entered, each gripping one of Iliyan’s arms. His dark hair was mussed, his clothes askew. He was shoved roughly to the ground a few steps away from Ramún, just far enough that they couldn’t reach each other.

“You both know your relationship is unheard of,” his father said. “You have blasphemed against the gods by giving yourselves over to perversions. Such obscenity can only be purged from our society by dealing with it harshly. It will therefore, like any disorderly behavior, be punished by death.”

By death.

The words throbbed through Ramún’s mind. No—no, that can’t be—

Iliyan raised his head. “The god’s son bears no blame. It was I who sought to claim him. I misled him with dark magic. The blood of the gods runs in Ramún’s veins. No one—godsblooded or not—has the right to eliminate the gods’ own descendant.”

“W-what?” Ramún stammered. The word DEATH still echoed through his head; there was little room for anything else, and yet Iliyan’s words forced their way in.

Stunned, he turned his head. Iliyan met his eyes. It was a look of pure love, one that made Ramún’s heart break because he understood, in that moment, what Iliyan was trying to do.

Clear me. Take all the guilt onto himself.

He wanted to protest, wanted to say it wasn’t true, that none of this had anything to do with dark magic, but every word was lodged in his throat.

Iliyan’s testimony seemed to soften his father a little; his expression eased. “And so the wicked spirit can no longer endure the light, and the truth comes forth. You have defiled my son, and for that you will bleed. Ramún, meanwhile… failed to resist the darkness. His weakness has tainted our valley, especially in a time when we need the gods’ and our ancestors’ guidance most. For that reason, he will be banished and never again welcomed in our valley.”

Ramún still couldn’t speak. What did that even mean—was he allowed to live? Allowed to leave? And Iliyan? Could Iliyan come with him?

“I accept my punishment,” he said softly, bowing his head. “But I beg you to let Iliyan go with me. You will never see us again. You—”

“Silence!” his father barked. “The lowborn will receive what he deserves for dishonoring a god’s son. Immediately!”

“No!” Ramún screamed. He leapt up, drove his elbow into the face of the man beside him, and ran to Iliyan.

He grabbed for Iliyan’s hand, tried to pull him along.

Iliyan’s arms closed around him, holding him tight. “This is not a fight we can win,” he whispered, a sob in his voice. “I love you. I would give my life a thousand times if it saved yours. Leave this place—find somewhere you’re allowed to be who you are. Do it for us.” He met Ramún’s eyes, placing a hand over his heart. “I’ll be here. Always. Everywhere.”

Ramún began to cry. Hands clawed at him, trying to tear him away, but he clung to Iliyan with desperate strength.

“Don’t cry, my love.” Iliyan cupped his cheeks and kissed his lips. Tears shone in his own eyes. “Let me see that beautiful smile one more time. It chases away every pain.”

Ramún shook his head wildly and held him tighter. He would rather die with him than stay behind. “Don’t go,” he whispered through sobs. “You promised we would leave together.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Iliyan whispered back. “Just because you won’t see me, doesn’t mean I’ll be gone. I’ll watch over you, my little condor. I’ll watch until the day you spread your wings and find the path to the Golden World.”

Fingers dug into Ramún’s shoulders, tearing at his flesh. He stumbled backward, and in that moment they dragged him away from his friend.

Ramún screamed, shrieked, fought. The hands did not release him. Through a haze of tears he saw Iliyan forced toward the raised platform.

His father rose from his throne and approached.

Approached the boy his son loved more than anything in the world.

Ramún didn’t hear what was said. He could only stare ahead—at the golden tumi in the hands of the man who had raised him. Father turned Iliyan to face the hall, yanked his head back by his hair. Then he lifted the crescent-shaped blade and drew it in one swift motion across the soft flesh.

It wasn’t the blood spraying that Ramún saw. It was the resigned calm in Iliyan’s eyes, his gentle smile, the sheer will with which he met his death.

Ramún’s knees gave out. He collapsed, weeping and weeping and weeping.

For six days, Ramún didn’t speak. He said nothing to his parents or brother as they prepared him for his departure. Without saying farewell, he walked through the streets with clenched teeth. He felt numb as he passed all the people he had once believed he would someday care for.

Step by step, he moved farther from the house of the gods.

He would never return. He never wanted to return.

He had almost left the city. He headed east, so he wouldn’t have to travel past the lake where he’d sat with Iliyan so many times. It would hurt too much.

You must be strong.

Where was he supposed to go? How was he meant to survive on his own?

You must be strong. I will watch over you, always, everywhere.

The paved road turned into sand. He walked past the homes of the poorest families—where Iliyan had grown up.

His Iliyan. Gone now, forever.

A tear slipped down his cheek.

Suddenly, a girl stepped into his path. She looked about eight Marches, holding a war-club in her hands. “This was Iliyan’s,” she said softly. “Here. Take it with you.”

Ramún’s lower lip trembled. He took the club, running his fingers over the smooth wood, over the place where Iliyan’s hands had curled around it. He looked down at the girl and saw tears in her eyes.

She understands. She understands. That we loved each other.

He drew a deep breath, but it did nothing to hold back his own tears. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her hair.

He wished he could take her with him, this little girl who had suffered the same loss he had. But he couldn’t. What future could a banished god’s son offer her? He was nothing now, no one.

Even before Tutayaq completed her transformation, the wild animals would likely have devoured him.

Without another word, he released her. A stone seemed lodged in his throat. He was the reason she had lost her brother. He walked on quickly, guilt burning in his stomach.

He continued alone, clutching Iliyan’s weapon to his chest. He walked and walked, until Kanchi ceded his domain to Tutayaq and the world grew colder.

And not only the world.

A cold crept into his heart as well, freezing what little innocence he had left.

Ramún was dead—killed alongside the love of his life.

But he would keep Iliyan’s memory alive.

He would carry Iliyan’s name with pride. He would become the one who had not been allowed to exist, and one day he would return and let blood flow through this valley.