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832 pages, Hardcover
First published February 25, 2025

Scars were nothing but a memory of how she had been hurt. It was little use explaining this to Masha for she took scars as a memory of how she had healed.
‘The memory haunts me, Princess, but it is a nightmare I have grown familiar with. Familiarity dulls the poison but…’
‘… but it still corrodes,’ Vahura said, knowing how it was to want to go back to a time before it was too late. After all, she had seen her own mother claw her eyes out. Some things you can’t be cheered out of.
But Dantavakra of Chedi was nothing if not a charmer. He knew the tricks. To win them he would cook them savoury compliments and pretend to take interest in their lives. When one is, however, the only civilized person in a group, one begins to look like a barbarian. All his compliments earned him was a nickname. Flower, they called him, and the worst of it was, it had taken him quite a while to understand that it was an insult.
Inevitability is often the mother of surrender but with the right dosage of circumstances and will, can be the step-mother of defiance.
A mind busy can be a pillar of power, but it is what a mind does when it is idle that builds a roof over the pillars.
‘If only you knew how to whisper to a woman’s ears, you would not need to stalk her husband’s home.’
Turns out when the holy leaders of a city do not interfere with the life of a city to create order, chaos finds a way to behave splendidly.
‘A girl needs to keep busy with the fantastical to bear the fanatical.’
Darkness never lured. It is the stars they need to fear.
I don’t like it when prejudice doesn’t realize that what it treats as weeds to be removed are instead wildflowers that help trees make fruit.
He was an outsider in this world. He might know their language but he wished he had their accent.
So he set out as he always had with a steely gaze that is a hallmark of men who were about to commit desperate follies in the name of love.
Wind-tousled short hair that once just about tickled her jaw lay combed to her shoulders, perfumed, and neatly parted, with a slash of vermillion marking the centre line like a stripe on a sacrificial lamb. Collarbones once free to frolic with the breeze were now buried under golden chains, and wrists that wore rope bands now jingled under the weight of golden bangles as heavy as shackles. She caught sight of her wedding gift in the reflection of the mirror, a tapestry of a monstrous swan locked in a skirmish with a majestic shark, and wondered, not for the first time, how in this fairy tale had the bloody Black Swan transformed into the Bedecked Duck?
She did not care if wanting to be pretty was petty, for only the truly blind would favour feeling important over feeling nice.
The three sat there for a long time watching the city crumble. Iyran Machil, the cradle and now the grave of a civilization, was the evidence of the lie in the immortality of a world. Worlds, it seemed, could be slain