The square had been scrubbed. That was the first thing Diya noticed.

  For as long as she could remember, the Town Square of Ghanesha had been a place of soot and shouting. Of proclamations barked from stages and punishments carried out before a restless, tired crowd. The stones had always seemed stained, as though the Sacred Beast itself bled through the cracks in the cobbles.

  Now they gleamed.

  Garlands of marigold and indigo silk stretched from balcony to balcony. Blackblood lanterns hung in floating braziers, glass painted in bright colors so that the whole square shimmered like a fallen constellation. Musicians crowded the edges with drums and flutes and battered brass horns. Children darted between adults’ legs, clutching spun sugar and paper windmills that caught the warm updrafts from the elephant’s steady gait.

  And at the center of it all—where the gallows had once stood—there was a stage. Diya stopped at the edge of the square, boots rooted to stone.

  The beam was gone.

  She could still see it if she closed her eyes. The thick timber crossbar, the coarse rope swaying in the wind, her father’s silhouette against a sky the color of a bruise. She had been too young to understand the politics of it. Yet, old enough to understand the injustice. Old enough to understand the void left in her life afterwards.

  A hand slipped into hers. Tamsin.

  Her thick, curly hair was braided with gold thread tonight, eyes bright instead of hollow. The grief of her brother’s death still lived in her, but it no longer held her captive. She squeezed Diya’s fingers once, firm and steady.

  The crowd shifted, and suddenly Rohan was there as well, limping through with three clay cups of steaming chai held triumphantly overhead. He had lost a leg, but the surgeon had been able to affix a wooden prosthetic that allowed him to move about decently well.

  “For the hero of Ghanesha,” he declared, thrusting one into Diya’s hand. Then handing the other to Tamsin, with a nervous grin. “And for the witch who terrifies me only slightly less than she did a month ago.”

  The members of the coven who had fought during the eclipse, gathered. They had helped free the imprisoned citizens from Heaven’s Reach. Overthrowing Arjun and Zoralia’s iron grip on the city.

  The city had seen. The city had remembered. And so, the city welcomed them as well as the members of the coven who had remained aboard Township Sanglier. It helped that those who had come from Sanglier brought pastries and sweets with them for the grand celebration.

  Shikra landed in a thunder of wings at the far edge of the square, scattering flower petals into the air. Children shrieked—not in fear, but delight—as the great roc folded her burnt-umber wings and strutted forward like she owned the place.

  “I suppose she does,” Diya muttered fondly. “Without her, there would be no Ghanesha.”

  The music swelled.

  Someone had dragged crates into a makeshift dance circle. Soldiers clasped hands with factory girls. Witches spun with blacksmiths. Even a few former Council aides—stripped of their finery—laughed awkwardly as they attempted to follow the rhythm.

  Tamsin tugged Rohan into the fray. Rohan whooped, hair blowing in the wind and hopping on his peg leg awkwardly as they twirled.

  For the first time in her life, Diya saw Ghanesha not as segregated layers—Blacklung Bend choking beneath Heaven’s Reach—but as a single, breathing organism.

  One body. One heart. United by their shared trauma.

  “Captain!”

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  She turned.

  Mako, the informant boy from Prisha’s factory stood there, face scrubbed clean, hair combed flat for once. Behind him, dozens of children from the orphanages, no, from the schools now, waved hand-painted posters with her face on them.

  Her throat tightened. It was a sweet gesture, though not the most flattering illustrations. Damn kids…

  She hadn’t noticed the movement toward the stage until it was too late.

  Hands, warm, and insistent caught her by the shoulders.

  “What? No, no, absolutely not—”

  Rohan’s grin was unrepentant as he and Tamsin propelled her forward. “You didn’t think we were throwing a party without a speech, did you?”

  “I hate speeches.”

  “Tragic,” Tamsin said sweetly. “But…you’re still about to give one.”

  The musicians quieted. The square hushed in ripples, sound folding inward like wings.

  Diya found herself on the stage. She had no clue what to say. Her throat felt suddenly dry as a desert.

  She shuffled nervously, in the spot where the rope had once swung.

  A heavy silence settled.

  At the front stood the remaining members of The Council—those not imprisoned or exiled—flanked by coven elders and representatives from every district. The old crest of Ghanesha, tarnished and cracked, had been removed from the balcony above. In its place hung a new banner.

  Not Heaven’s Reach. Not Blacklung Bend. Just the elephant, painted whole and unbroken.

  An elderly councilwoman stepped forward, voice ringing clear. “Citizens of Ghanesha,” she called, “we gather not only to celebrate survival, but rebirth.”

  A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.

  “We have faced pirates, traitors, famine, and extinction. We have been divided by greed and poisoned by ambition. And yet—”

  Her gaze found Diya.

  “—we stand. Because one of our own refused to abandon us.”

  Heat crept up Diya’s neck. She tried to step back.

  Rohan and Tamsin blocked her retreat.

  The councilwoman continued, “She exposed corruption within these very walls. She fought in our skies. She journeyed to the surface and even befriended witches when it was perilous to do so. She chose Ghanesha, even when Ghanesha had once chosen death for her father.”

  A collective breath. Diya’s hands trembled.

  “We can think of no one better to guide us forward.” The woman bowed.

  One by one, the coven bowed. Then the soldiers. Then the workers. Then the children.

  The square dropped to one knee.

  Diya’s pulse roared in her ears. “No,” she whispered. “No, that’s not… I’m not—”

  The councilwoman’s voice carried over the kneeling crowd. “Diya Akash, will you accept the mantle of Sultana of Ghanesha?”

  The word struck like a cannon blast.

  Sultana.

  Her first instinct was to laugh. Her second was to run.

  She looked out over them: the scarred, stubborn, infuriating people of her impossible city. She saw soot-streaked faces and jeweled veils. She saw witches with vials of blood magic and soldiers with flintlock rifles slung low. She saw Rohan trying—and failing—not to look emotional.

  She saw Tamsin, chin lifted proudly. She saw Shikra, golden eyes fixed on her as if daring her to flee. She saw the place where her father had died.

  And she realized something terrible and wonderful all at once. If she walked away now, someone else would stand here.

  Someone who might be willing to accept the way things were. Someone who might let the segregation return.

  Her laugh came, shaky and disbelieving. “You lot are insufferable,” she said hoarsely.

  A ripple of confused chuckles washed through the town square.

  She stepped forward. “I don’t want this,” she admitted.

  A hushed silence fell over the crowd.

  “I don’t want a throne. I don’t want a crown. I don’t want to sit in some high-backed chair pretending the air smells sweet while children choke below.”

  The eyes of the crowd watched her, their ears clinging anxiously to her every word.

  “But I do want this city,” she said, voice sharpening. “I want Blacklung Bend to breathe clean air. I want Heaven’s Reach to earn its name. I want our soldiers fed. I want our factories accountable. I want our children educated and our Council terrified of disappointing you.”

  A few startled laughs came from the elders. Her gaze swept them all.

  “I can’t promise perfection. I can’t promise miracles. I’m an alchemist, not a god.”

  A beat.

  “But I swear this, I will not look away.” The words felt like steel in her mouth. “I swear to tear rot from our foundations, even when it’s inconvenient. I swear to listen when you shout. I swear to remember that this square once held a noose wrapped around the neck on an innocent man, and to ensure it never does again.”

  Silence.

  Then came a roar.

  Cheers shook the lanterns. Music erupted. Someone started chanting her name, and she grimaced as it spread like wildfire.

  “Sultana Diya!”

  She winced. “Absolutely not—”

  Too late. The chants surged in volume.

  Rohan scooped her into a crushing hug.

  Tamsin followed.

  Shikra leapt onto the edge of the stage and let out a triumphant, bone-rattling screech.

  Diya stood there in the emerald lanternlight, heart hammering, the weight of an entire city settling onto her shoulders.

  It was heavier than any spear. Heavier than any bomb. But she had carried the weight of the city on her back before and found it could not break her.

  As fireworks bloomed over Ghanesha—bursts of gold and emerald reflecting off the elephant’s vast back—Diya, flanked by her friends, found she couldn’t stop smiling.

  The sky danced above her, welcoming a new beginning.