From behind, Wren’s voice rises up. “I’m no demon! I am Wren Hanno, a Paper Girl, and I have come to kill the King!”
There’s a flurry as the soldiers on the balcony run into the hallway, lured by Wren’s shout.
I scramble to my hands and knees. From the other side of the curtain, shouts ring out, along with thumps and the clatter of weapons. I draw back the corner of the silks—and come face-to-face with Wren.
She’s been wrestled to the floor. Blood trickles from her mouth where she’s been hit. Demon guards pin her down. More rush about, some waiting for orders while others dart off in all directions. Wren’s name bounds through the corridors, Wren Hanno, Wren Hanno, in time with each frantic beat of my heart.
Wren’s defiant gaze fixes mine through the blurred legs of demons.
I love you, she mouths.
Then she’s being wrenched up. She disappears within the crowd of guards. There are more thuds, the dull sounds of kicks and punches.
“Is the girl with you?” a demon demands.
“The Moonchosen!” another barks. “Where is she?”
“She’s dead,” Wren answers.
More hits.
“Where is she?”
“Where is she!”
Wren spits the words between blows. “She. Is. Dead.”
“Search the palace!” a gruff voice growls as they drag Wren away. “This one is just a distraction. The Moonchosen must be somewhere. Remember—the King wants her alive!”
I drop the curtain and scoot back against the wall of the deserted balcony. Tears pour down my face. I gulp down breaths, forcing myself to stay quiet even as I’m shaking all over; even as the corridor outside falls silent; even as I know I am alone, truly alone, replaying that last fleeting image of Wren before she was taken away.
Her determined expression. A trail of red painting one cheek. The motion of her lips.
I love you.
Earlier, I’d spoken the same three words to Wren before I drew a knife across my throat. I know what they mean in the midst of a battle. They mean you know you might not make it. That you want to make sure your loved one hears them one last time.
They’re just another way to say good-bye.
I clutch my fists so forcefully my nails dig into my palms, my face hot and wet. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. It was meant to be my sacrifice, not hers.
In the vast space of the Ancestral Hall, there’s a commotion. Through my daze, I hear Wren’s name. Voices talk over one another. Then one silences the others.
“Bring her to me.”
The sound of it sends a current of hatred down my spine.
I climb to my feet. Staying low—aware the guards on the other galleries are also peering down, intent on what’s happening—I peer over the balcony.
The scene below chills me to the bone.
The steps of the hall are mostly empty, save for rows of soldiers standing side by side, lining the walls. The pool at the heart of the room shimmers in the lantern light. Beside it, in the same place it stood the last time I was here, is a large golden throne. Demons cluster around it. Most are familiar from my time at the King’s side as the Moonchosen: court advisers, a few guards, and—powerless now—a collection of his most trusted shamans. Then there are more familiar faces.
Some loved.
Others despised.
Naja, dressed in burnished silver armor over red and black robes, her snow-white fur spotless.
Nitta, bloodied and slumped before the white fox, her chair nowhere in sight. Her hands are tied behind her back. A cloth gags her, a heavy collar at her neck, its chain in Naja’s hand.
Merrin, flanked by guards, his winged arms drawn behind him and bolted through with a steel bar, blood dripping down his feathers.
The Demon Queen, her belly rounder than when I last saw it. A chain trails from her right wrist to the throne, where, upon it, he sits.
The King.
I burn at the sight of him. There is no fear. Only hatred, and a dark, deep, searing resolve. He’s covered in heavy gold armor—no armor any true warrior would wear for its impracticality—and his face is protected by a matching war-mask, hammered to the shape of his tapered nose and jaw.
And then—
Wren.
Bruised and bloodied and kicked to her knees, she’s being dragged to the King by a group of guards. Yet she holds her head high, her gaze unwavering. My heart swells with tender pride. Graceful, always.
Graceful, until the end.
I want nothing more than to leap from the balcony and drive my knife through the King’s skull. But I hold myself back. The moment I expose myself, everything will be thrown into chaos. When I come for the King, I need to be sure.
My eyes skim over the demons on the other viewing galleries. None of them notice me, too captivated by the sight of Ketai Hanno’s infamous warrior daughter. Most of the demons are archers. The ones in the first line of each gallery have their bows nocked, ready to fire at a second’s notice. If I jumped now, I’d be dead before my body hit the ground.
The King stands as Wren is dumped at his cloven feet. A rapt silence grows. There is only the clink of the King’s armor and my racing heartbeat, crashing against my rib cage in a feverish rhythm.
I brace for the King to strike Wren. So when he pitches back his head instead and laughs, I’m too stunned to react. Then my rage, already whipped into a violent storm, explodes.
My fury almost blinds me, but I force myself to focus, watching as Wren—my beautiful, brave wonder of a girl—waits with exquisite patience for the King’s laughter to die.
When it does, he lowers his masked face to hers. “We will find her.”
“Lei is dead,” Wren says. “She died in Military Court as we were making our way here. If you don’t believe me, send for her body.”
There’s a muffled sob: Nitta. She slumps, her cries loud even through the gag. Beside her, Merrin drops his head.
The King assesses Wren through the eyes of his mask. He flicks a hand. “You three—go.” As the guards sprint off, the King keeps his stare trained on Wren. “Whatever you are planning,” he says quietly, “it won’t work. I know that magic has disappeared. It was your only power, the only thing that gave you an advantage over any demon. And now it is gone. You are nothing, Wren-zhi.”
The use of her Paper Girl title strikes me like a slap, but Wren’s expression doesn’t change; she won’t rise to his taunting.
The King strikes her across the face. The sound is loud in the hush.
Wren spits out the wad of blood in her mouth, then lifts her head.
The King hits her again.
And again.
And again.
And each time, Wren raises her head, meeting his incensed glare, her face the composed mask it was when I first met her, before I knew it was a shield, before I knew the soft, sweet soul it protected. Before she let me see who she was beneath the walls she’d built against the world.
Something I know she will never let the King see, no matter how many times he tries to break through.