Amara Ira stands out. She really can’t help it. In the Seven Cities, shored up against the void outside by soaring concrete walls no one sees over, there is only white, grey, silver, and gold. Amara was born in colors that are forbidden even to wear, and it sucks. Her mother’s never satisfied, her picture-perfect sister is almost terrified of her, and everyone is constantly asking her, “Were you born looking like that?” as if she’d do this to herself. Provided she can pass “betrothal training”, Amara is mentally preparing to be handed off at eighteen to whatever man her mother can pay richly enough to take her. When Crown Prince Atlas (kinder and much more perceptive than she’d given him credit for) takes an interest in her, Amara’s fortunes seem ready to change. But there’s so much she doesn’t know. Somewhere else—somewhere that will strain the bounds of Amara’s imagination and shatter her understanding of the world and of herself—someone is watching her. A woman whose name lives in horror stories told to future brides, whose fate is bound into that of the golden royal family and into Amara’s own. That woman is sharpening her blades and saying to herself: “It’s time to bring her home. The gods are awake, and we have work to do.”