Give a Kenettran gold, and he will do business with you.
Give a Kenettran a purebred stallion, and he will kill for you.
—Commission on the Prosecution of Maran and Accomplice,
High Court of Beldain
Adelina Amouteru
The instant I sneak out of the Fortunata Court and into the main street, I sense that something’s off.
Sure—people in colorful silks fill the road, and vendors selling masks are everywhere, clogging the street and hawking their wares like they would at a spring masquerade in Dalia. People laugh and cheer. Flowering vines grow thick and lush along the street’s buildings, and horses pulling carriages and crates make their way up and down the wide roads. Gondolas line up in the river canals, heavy with passengers. A man pushing a cart of fruit tarts sings a folk song while a small cluster of children dance after him. The smell of butter and spices mixes with the pungent odor of crowds.
But black clouds blanket the sky, even darker than when I glimpsed it earlier from the courtyard. There’s a dampness in the air, a cold, tense stillness that contrasts sharply with the colorful banners hanging from balconies and the festivities on the street. The smiling people in masquerade masks look threatening to me. As if everyone knows what I’m about to do, and where I’m headed. I keep my face down.
There are reports posted by the Inquisition Axis at each main intersection, calling for the people to report any suspicious malfettos. I instinctively push myself into the crowd, trying to stay hidden. Everyone seems headed in the same direction, so I follow along, lost among their glittering outfits and bright masks. My slippers slap against the curve of cobblestone. What Estenzian celebration is this? I wonder as I pass through a narrow street with low-hanging vines dangling overhead.
“For the Red Quarter!” someone shouts beside me, waving a piece of red silk high over his head. It takes me a moment to realize that everyone in the crowd is waving colors of silk: red, green, gold, and blue.
Off in the distance and near the harbor, the roof of the Inquisition Tower shines under the sun.
The crowd jostles me. Finally, I manage to squeeze my way out of the main crowds and down a narrow, quieter alley. I’m careful to stay in the shadows. If I knew how to use my powers, I could probably use a dark silhouette to hide myself even further. I try to call on it again, but the threads stay just outside of my grasp, taunting me.
By the time I reach the Inquisition Tower, I’m drenched in sweat and trembling from head to toe. I’m lucky that few people seem to be in this area of the city—everyone is off at the festivities. I stare at the entrance, where Inquisitors stand guard, and try to imagine Violetta inside the stone walls. I hesitate, wringing my hands.
What if Teren doesn’t have Violetta at all? What kind of trap might this be? I bite my lip, dwelling on how Teren had not arrested me at the court, how he threatened to kill Violetta if I didn’t come. I stare so long at the Tower that my vision starts to blur. Finally, when the street is clear, I hurry on silent feet to the tower’s entrance.
The Inquisitors standing guard bar me. “What’s this?” one of them grunts.
“Please,” I manage to say in a hoarse whisper. Already, I feel exposed out here. If one of the Elites sees me . . . “I’m here to see Master Teren Santoro. He’s expecting me.”
The Inquisitor studies me suspiciously, then exchanges a look with the second Inquisitor at the entrance. He shakes his head at me.
“I’ll pass the word to Master Santoro,” he says to me. “Until then, you’ll have to wait out here.”
“No,” I say in a rush, then look around me again at the streets. Sweat beads on my brow. “I have to see him now,” I add in a lower, urgent voice. “I cannot be seen here. Please.”
The Inquisitor shoves me away with an irritated look. “You will wait here,” he snaps. “Until such time as—”
His words cut off as the door behind him shudders, then swings slowly open. There, standing casually at the entrance with his hands folded behind his back, is Teren. He smiles at the sight of me. “What seems to be the problem?” he says to the guards.
The Inquisitor who shoved me whirls around, bewildered. All annoyance falls from his face. He bows hastily to Teren. “Sir,” he begins, “this girl claims she is here to see you. We—”
“And so she is,” Teren interrupts, his pale eyes focused on me. “I’ve been watching you make your way toward the tower.” He gestures for me to come closer.
I swallow hard, then hurry past the two Inquisitors with my head down. When I step into the tower, Teren shuts the door behind me. I sag in relief at the knowledge that I’m no longer exposed outdoors.
Then I shudder at the sight of the tower’s great hall, decorated with the same furs, tapestries, and symbols of the eternal sun as the tower in Dalia where I’d been imprisoned.
Teren leads me into a narrower hall, then into a chamber with a long table and chairs. There, he pulls a chair out for me and offers me the seat. I sit, shaking. My throat feels parched. Teren sits down beside me, then leans back in a relaxed posture.
“You kept your promise,” he says after a while. “I appreciate that. It saves me a great deal of trouble.”
I don’t want to ask what he would have done if I hadn’t shown up. Instead, I meet his gaze. “Is my sister safe?” I whisper.
Teren nods. “Safe and unharmed, for now.”
“Let me see her.”
He laughs a little at that. The amusement never reaches his eyes, though, and the ice in his stare chills me to the bone. “How about first you tell me something I want to know?” he says.
I stay quiet, unsure of what to say. My thoughts blur together into a frantic river. How little can I tell him, to keep Violetta safe? What will satisfy him? I take a deep breath, then gather all the courage I can muster. “I’ll tell you nothing, if you can’t prove you have her.”
Teren’s smile widens, and he regards me with a more interested look. “A bargainer,” he murmurs. He waits a long moment before he leans back in his chair. He reaches into the space between his sleeve and his armguard. “I thought as much.”
As I look on, he pulls something out and tosses it onto the table. It lands with a clink.
I peer closer. It’s a sapphire necklace that Violetta likes to wear. But it is even more than that—tied to the necklace’s silver chain is a long, thick lock of Violetta’s dark hair.
My heart jumps into my throat.
“Before you begin,” Teren says, cutting through my thoughts, “I want to make something very clear.” He leans forward. His eyes pierce me. “My word is always good, so do not make a habit of testing it. You will want to tell me the truth. I have many, many eyes in this city. If you lie, I will find out. If you deny me what I want, I will hurt her. Do you understand?”
He has her here. I press my hands hard into my dress to keep them from trembling. “Yes,” I whisper. I don’t dare question him further.
“Now. Since it seems like you are at a loss for where to begin, let me help you along with some questions.” He leans on his knees with his elbows, and taps his hands together. “What have you been doing with the Elites, up until now?”
I take a deep breath. I need to stall this for as long as I can. “Resting, mostly,” I reply. I’m surprised at how level my words are. “I was unconscious for many days.”
“Yes, of course.” Teren almost looks sympathetic. “You had many injuries.”
I nod in silence. “They don’t trust me yet,” I decide to say. “They . . . they wear those silver masks. I don’t know their names or identities.”
Teren is not so easily fazed. “What do you know?”
I swallow. The air feels so heavy. I must tell him something. As if in a dream, I feel the words emerge. “They visit me occasionally at the Fortunata Court,” I whisper.
Teren smiles. “Do they operate from there?”
“I’m not sure.” I can hear my heartbeat. The darkness growing in my chest makes me dizzy. I sway in my seat, hungry to use the power. I wish I had Enzo’s abilities, I suddenly think, and the wish makes the ambition in me surge. I wish I had the power to burn this entire tower to the ground.
“Tell me, Adelina,” Teren says, watching me curiously. “What are they planning?”
With a great effort, I push the rising darkness down. I cannot use my powers on him. I’m too weak. Besides, what would a bunch of shadows do? I clear my throat. What can I tell him, what will do the least harm? “They are planning something for the Tournament of Storms,” I manage to say. “I don’t know what.”
Teren considers my words. Then, he claps his hands once, and a moment later, an Inquisitor opens the door. “Sir?”
Teren waves him over. He whispers something in the other man’s ear that I cannot hear. The man casts me a wary look. Finally, Teren pulls away. “Tell the king immediately,” he says.
The other Inquisitor bows low. “Of course, sir.” He hurries off.
“Is that all?” Teren asks me.
Raffaele’s gentle face appears in my thoughts, and with it comes a stab of guilt. I’ve given him so little. Please, let this be enough to satisfy him. “That’s all I know,” I whisper. “I need more time.”
For a long moment, Teren doesn’t move.
Just as I start to think that he’ll demand more from me this visit, he relaxes and looks away. “You came to me today,” he says. “And that is a useful start. Thank you for your information. For keeping your word, I shall keep mine. Your sister is safe.”
Tears spring to my eye, and I slump in relief.
“She is safe—for as long as you continue to satisfy me.” His eyes swivel back to me. “When will I see you again?”
“Two weeks,” I say hoarsely. “Give me two more weeks.” At his silence, I look down. “Please.”
Finally, he nods. “Very well.” He rises. “You may go.”
And that is all.
Teren guides me out of the tower through a small back entrance hidden behind a gate and an alley. Before he lets me go, he takes my hands in his. He bends down to brush his lips against one of my cheeks. “You’ve done well,” he whispers. He kisses my other cheek. “Keep it up.”
Then he leaves me alone, and I wander back through the city’s streets on trembling legs. I am a traitor. What have I done?
I wander, lost in a daze, until I realize that I’ve made my way back in the direction from where the earlier festivities had been going on. Here, silent streets make way for noisy revelers again, and before I know it, I turn a street corner and find myself engulfed by a cheering mob. My fear and exhaustion make way for a touch of curiosity. What’s all the commotion? There’s no way I can make it back to the Fortunata Court without going through all these people.
Then I turn another corner with the crowd, and we enter the largest public square I’ve ever seen.
The piazza is surrounded on three sides by water canals. People fill the space where they can, but most of it is completely fenced off with thick lengths of rope. Looping around the piazza is a dirt track, which several Inquisitors are inspecting. A line of people dressed in elaborate silk costumes and ornate masks parade along the edge of the track, standard-bearers and trumpeters and arlecchinos, aristocrats and their valets, all waving at the cheering onlookers. My eye wanders the crowd, which now looks roughly partitioned into segments of people waving either red, blue, gold, or green silks in the air. People crowd onto the balconies lining the square. Each balcony has colorful flags hanging from it, muted by the dark sky.
A horse race. I’d witnessed several before in Dalia, although none were quite this big of a spectacle. I glance around the piazza, looking for a good route back to the court. The Daggers’ mission today must have to do with this.
I look up to the balconies. Now I pick out the royal seats—on a building situated at the front of the racetrack is a balcony that gives a perfect view, its iron railings decorated with gold and white silks. But the king and queen aren’t there. Maybe their royal seats are just for show.
A low rumble of thunder echoes through the city.
“Ladies and noblemen! Fellow spectators!” One of the costumed men on the racetrack holds both arms high in the air. The race’s trumpeter, the official announcer. His booming voice hushes the roar of the crowd. The parade of colorful costumes pauses, and the scene changes from one of merry chaos to one of hushed anticipation. Inquisitors stand around the square, ready to keep order if needed. Thunder rumbles overhead, as if in warning.
“Welcome to the qualifying races for Estenzia!” the trumpeter calls out. He turns in a circle so that everyone can see him, and then stops to face the direction of the empty royal balconies. He bows low with an elaborate flourish. “Let this be a tribute to our royal majesties, and the prosperity they bring to Kenettra.”
The response surprises me—no clapping or cheers from the crowd. Just a rumble of unrest and a few scattered Long live the king shouts uttered. Back home in Dalia, people complained about the king. Now I’m hearing that resentment firsthand. I imagine Enzo seated in the royal seats instead, the crown prince and rightful ruler. How natural he would look. How many of these spectators are loyal to Enzo? How many are Elite supporters?
For an instant, I dare to imagine myself up there on the balcony. The thought of such power leaves me trembling.
The announcer turns his attention back to the crowd. “Today, you will select from Estenzia the fastest riders to send to this summer’s Tournament of Storms. Three racers have been chosen from each of our city’s quarters. As tradition decrees, the top three racers from today’s roster of those twelve will continue on.” He grins widely, his teeth shining a brilliant white under his glittering half mask. He puts one hand to his ear in an exaggerated gesture. “Which quarter will come out on top?”
Here, the crowd’s enthusiasm erupts. They roar with the names of their quarters. Colored silks wave furiously through the air.
“I’m hearing the Red Quarter!” the announcer taunts, causing a fresh round of cheering as the other three quarters scream themselves hoarse. “Wait—now I’m hearing the Blue Quarter. But the Green Quarter has a strong crop of three-year-old colts this year, as does the Gold Quarter. Who will it be?” He waves his hands in a flourish. “Shall we see our riders?”
The crowd shrieks. I stay frozen in place. The Tournament of Storms. This is what Raffaele had been talking about earlier. This is why the Daggers are here—this is their mission. They are trying to get one of their own to qualify for the Tournament of Storms’ horse race, probably to get a shot at the king in a very public arena. My head feels fuzzy with the shock. And now I’ve alerted Teren to it.
Amid the chaos of cheers, the first three stallions parade out. Red Quarter citizens wave silks in the air, patting the horses’ sides as they trot through the masses and onto the track. I’m momentarily distracted. It takes only one look to know that these stallions have superior blood to the horses I remember from my father’s estate. These are Sunland purebreds, with perfectly arched necks and flared nostrils, their eyes still glowing with the wild temper that my horses had long ago lost. They toss their decorated manes adorned with red silks as their riders, similarly adorned, wave at their supporters.
Then, the Green Quarter’s riders and their steeds come trotting out. This is when I let out a small gasp.
One of the Green Quarter’s riders is Star Thief. The purple marking across her face is visible and prominent.
“Lady Gemma of House Salvatore, riding Master Aquino’s glorious stallion Keepsake!”
He goes on to list out the stallion’s past wins, but I’m no longer listening. In the midst of the roaring crowds, I realize that Gemma’s family must be a wealthy and powerful one, for a malfetto like her to be allowed to compete like this.
I should head back to the Fortunata Court, before they find me missing. But the spectacle is too much to resist, and my feet stay chained to the ground, my stare fixed on the girl I know as the Star Thief.
Gemma’s presence stirs a near riot in the crowd. I hear “Malfetto!” spat out in the air, mixing with a loud roar of boos, and when I take a good look at the crowd, I notice people who have put false markings on themselves, jeering and taunting Gemma with exaggerated purple patches painted on their own faces. One of them even flings rotten fruit at her. “Bastard child!” he screams, a cruel grimace twisting his face. Gemma ignores him, keeping her head high as her horse trots past. Other insults fly fast and thick.
A noble lady still gets insults like this? I bite my cheeks at the sharp twinge of anger that shoots through me—until I notice, with a start, that there are people defending her too. Loudly.
In fact, huge crowds of people are waving their flags in the air in her support, most from her Green Quarter, some even from the other quarters. I suck in my breath, and my anger changes to bewilderment—then to excitement. I look on in awe as Gemma nods in their direction. Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The tension between Gemma’s supporters and enemies crackles in the air, an early taste of potential civil war, and I take in a deep breath, as if to inhale the power it gives me. Not everyone hates malfettos, Enzo had said. My eye darts nervously to the Inquisitors, who look poised to act.
Gemma soaks in the attention. She tosses her dark hair and grins back at the spectators, focusing on the ones who shout out their support for her. Then she hops up onto her stallion’s back in one fluid motion. She balances there on both feet, nimble and petite, her arms crossed in satisfaction. Gemma waves, then jumps back down into a seated position. The entire time, her stallion stays perfectly calm. Of the competitors so far, she is the only malfetto.
The next two quarters’ competitors finally trot out, and the twelve organize themselves into a staggered line at one end of the track. The crowd’s roar is thunderous now. Gemma rubs her horse’s neck, and the stallion paws the ground in anticipation.
“Riders, prepare your horses!” the announcer calls out. The crowd’s roar dies down for a brief second as everyone hushes to watch the start.
The trumpeter lifts a bright yellow silk weighted down with a stone. He flings it skyward. “Go!” he screams.
The horses break. The crowd explodes.
A cloud of dust showers the track as the riders race their first lap around the track. I squint through the haze, then finally catch sight of Gemma’s green silks flying in the pack. She’s among the last half, but she wears a grin that could split her face.
First lap. A Red rider’s ahead, and Gemma is ninth. I find myself cheering for her silently.
All around me is screaming and shouting as each person calls out the names of their favorites. The chaos reminds me of my execution day, and with that, I feel darkness gathering within me. Raffaele had told me to watch the empty space, to look for threads of energy in the air.
The horses thunder around the bend and past me. Gemma has her head thrown back in a wild laugh, her dark hair streaming out behind her like a curtain. I focus on the space between her and the other riders. There’s the flicker of something shining in the corner of my eye. It vanishes when I try to look directly at it.
The horses storm down the track again, nearing the end of the second lap. Only one more lap to go. Gemma is still in ninth. Then suddenly, she makes her move—she pulls on her stallion’s mane, leans close to his neck, and whispers to him. At the same time, a gust of wind blows through the square. Windwalker. She must be watching from a vantage point.
Gemma starts moving up. Fast. Ninth to seventh, then seventh to sixth. Then fifth. Fifth to fourth, to third. The cheers of the Green Quarter’s onlookers turn fever pitched. My heart thuds furiously. With Windwalker’s help, and her own abilities, Gemma pulls gradually into second. I hold my breath. Concentrate. I stare hard at Gemma.
For a split second, I think I see threads glittering in the air, a thousand different colors, moving and shifting like strings on a loom.
The Red riders in first and third place try to block her, forcing her between them. But Gemma pushes harder—the two other riders’ horses toss their heads, startled, when dust kicks up near their hooves. Windwalker must’ve sent a curtain of wind to their legs, pushing them back.
A quarter of a lap to go. Gemma’s horse suddenly pulls ahead in a burst of speed—right into first place. The others try to catch her, but it’s too late. She crosses the finish line. The trumpeter flings the yellow silk in the air again, and shrieks fill the air. The Green Quarter is a sea of dancing silks.
She won.
I can’t resist a smile of relief, even as I pretend to be as subdued as the rest of the Blue Quarter I’m standing with. Perhaps all Teren can do with the information I gave him is to post more Inquisitors to the Tournament when it happens. Perhaps I didn’t affect the Daggers’ plans. All around the square are boos, furious shouts of “Disqualify her!” and “Malfetto,” accusations that she is one of the Young Elites. Still, no one can argue. We saw her win the race.
The trumpeter approaches Gemma, who is taking a bow from where she’s standing balanced on her stallion’s back, and hands her the weighted yellow silk with a ceremonial flourish. Even though he stays festive, I notice him avoid contact with her, jerking his hand away so that he can’t be dirtied by her touch. Gemma’s smile wavers, the first sign that she’s bothered by the treatment—but she still lifts her head high and masks her discomfort behind a widening grin. Then the trumpeter goes around to the other riders, handing each of them a length of green silk. The tradition is the same as it is in Dalia: The losing riders must wear the color of the winner’s quarters on their arms for the next three days, to show their good sport.
“Lady Gemma of House Salvatore!” the trumpeter shouts.
“Order! Order!” one of the Inquisitors calls out from where they’re fencing in the people, but only a few seem willing to listen to him. The Green Quarter in particular is a frenzy of color and sound. The other quarters murmur indignantly among themselves. I start pushing my way out of the crowd, the way I’d come. If the races are over, then I should head back before anyone notices I’m gone.
“Order, I say!” the Inquisitor barks out.
I halt where I am. More Inquisitors block the square’s exits, forcing me to stay put. One Inquisitor calls the trumpeter aside, says something to him that the crowd can’t hear—and then, to my surprise, calls two other Inquisitors over to force Gemma to dismount from her horse. The other riders hurriedly make their way off the track and into the crowd. The crowd stirs as one Inquisitor rides his steed into the middle of the square.
He holds his hands up for quiet. “Ladies and noblemen,” he begins, “I congratulate the Green District and their malfetto on her spectacular win.”
Gemma stands uncomfortably alone in the square, suddenly unhappy with all the attention. I have to get out of here. Now.
“However, I bring news from the palace. His Majesty has decreed that malfettos are no longer eligible for the Tournament of Storms.”
Immediately, the Red and Blue Districts cheer—while the Green erupts into angry shouts. Out in the square, Gemma remains on the track, uneasy and tense.
I swallow hard. A wave of guilt hits me. This is my doing.
The trumpeter exchanges a few more bewildered words with the Inquisitors. Then, he goes around to each of the other riders, collects their green sashes back, and hands them a red one instead, silently acknowledging the second place finisher’s win. The Green Quarter roars their fury. Already, scuffles are breaking out in the crowd.
My gaze stays on Gemma’s lone figure out in the square, bewildered and helpless, and for a moment I’m reminded of Violetta. The Inquisitors hold her there, as if they think she’d throw a fit. The trumpeter hands her a red sash. My hands grip the edges of my silks so tightly that I swear my nails are cutting open the skin of my palms. Threads of energy glitter in the air, signs of the crowd’s—of my own—rising fear. My fingertips tingle, humming with the growing power. Through the masses, my father’s ghost appears and disappears. He glides through the people, his haunting smile fixated on me.
Gemma’s cheeks burn with shame. The crowd falls into complete silence. One of the Inquisitors holding her now wraps the red sash around her upper right arm. She bites her lip, keeping her eyes turned downward. The Inquisitor winds it three times, then yanks it viciously tight. Gemma gasps out loud and winces.
“Sir Barra of the Red Quarter!” the trumpeter calls out, as the new winner holds his arms up. Gemma’s eyes stay down. Get out of there, I suddenly think at her, wishing she could hear me. A million threads hang over the square.
Suddenly, someone in the crowd hurls a rock at the Inquisitor’s head.
The Inquisitor blocks it with his sword before it can reach him, and it clatters off the metal and falls harmlessly to the ground. His eyes search the crowd for his attacker, but all he sees is a sea of stricken faces, suddenly silent and pale. I tense along with the crowd. In Dalia, attacking an Inquisitor is punishable by death.
The Inquisitor nods at his companions. Gemma lets out a cry of protest as they force her to her knees. The crowd gasps. Even the troublemakers, the ones who had insulted Gemma so freely earlier, now look uncertain. To my shame, excitement instead of horror wells up in my chest, and my fingertips tingle. My darkness is a building storm, black as the sky, the threads wound tight with tension and filling every crevice of my mind. The Daggers must be preparing to make a move. They must be ready to save her. Right? Raffaele said that Gemma’s powers scatter when she’s frightened.
“Perhaps we need a harsher reminder for this audience,” the Inquisitor snaps, “on the etiquette of good sport.” He presses his sword against her neck hard enough to draw blood.
Where are you, Enzo?
I can’t hold back any longer. I have to do something. Before I can stop myself, I reach out with my mind and pull on the strings of energy inside me. The ease hits me with a thrill. There is so much tension to feed on here—so much unease and ugliness, such dark feelings. Raffaele’s words flash through my thoughts. I focus, gathering all my concentration on the specific threads I’m pulling, knowing what I want to make. The threads push back, protesting the change, but I force them to bend to my will.
Up on the roofs, shadowy silhouettes rise.
Sweat beads on my forehead, but I force myself to keep my focus. I struggle to hold on to the threads, but there are so many of them. Clenching my teeth, I force the shape of the silhouettes to change. And for the first time—they listen to me. The silhouettes take on the shapes of Daggers, their dark hoods and silver masks intact, crouching by the dozens on the rooftops like silent sentinels, black against the stormy sky. I hold them all in position there. My breaths turn ragged. I feel like I’ve been running for hours. Some of the silhouettes quiver, barely able to retain their shape. Hold on. They stabilize. I catch my breath at how real they look.
The Inquisitors glance up at the roofs. The sword falls away from Gemma.
“The Elites!” several in the crowd shriek, pointing up at my illusion. “They’re here!”
The crowd bursts into screams. The horses startle. Gemma hops to her feet, her eyes wide, and seizes the moment to scamper back into the crowd. The rush of darkness through me is intoxicating and irresistible, and I find myself embracing it, letting it cover my insides like ink. Such power over these little masses. I love it.
I’m not strong enough to hold the illusion in place. The silhouettes scatter into nothingness as soon as I pull them back below the roofline. I shove my way frantically out of the square with the others. My sudden burst of bravado is replaced with anger at myself. Now Enzo will know for certain that I was here—they might find out why I was really in the streets. They might find out about my meeting with Teren, and what I told him. Nausea churns in me. I have to leave here.
All around me, people try to flood out of the square. Some Inquisitors are blocking the exits, but there are too many of us and not enough of them. I’m careful to stay close to the walls of the buildings as people shove past me. All around me is a blur of chaos and colors, masked faces and the sensation of others’ fear. Threads of energy glitter in the air.
Then, out of nowhere—an arrow comes flying from the sky and hits an Inquisitor in the chest. It hits him so hard that it knocks him off his horse.
The people near him shriek, scattering in all directions. Another arrow comes flying, and then another. The Inquisitors turn their attention to their invisible attackers—and as they do, the people finally break past the blocked paths and free themselves from the square. My heart hammers in my chest at the sight of blood.
The Daggers.
I stumble out of the square, then retrace my steps as I rush along with others. Behind me, I hear Inquisitors shouting for order—the sounds of scuffles tell me that they’re making arrests as they go. I rush on. Energy courses through me in relentless waves, feeding me even as I try to ignore the flood of power in my veins. In spite of everything, I feel a strange sense of glee.
All this chaos is of my own creation.
By the time I reach the court, I’m soaked in sweat. My breaths come hard. I round a corner to the side wall of the court facing a narrow street, then climb on the ivy and hoist myself over the low ledge. I collapse inside the courtyard. Then I pick myself up, dust off my hands, and pull open a side gate that leads to the inner chambers. Finally, I reach the secret wall. I push on it, step through, and rush toward my room. There. I’ve made it back before the others. I’ll head to my room and—
But someone’s already waiting for me in the hall. It’s Enzo.
The sudden sight of him catches me by surprise. Any hope of being spared his wrath is dashed when I see the expression on his face. His eyes are alight, the scarlet in them brighter than usual.
“You were to stay here,” he says. His voice is deadly quiet. “Why did you leave?”
Panic rises in my throat. He knows.
Something stirs behind him. I glance over his shoulder to see Windwalker, her mask off. Spider lurks farther down the hall, his arms crossed as he leans against the wall. He looks smug, eager to see me punished. “Huh,” he says. “Little lamb’s in trouble.”
I keep my focus on Enzo and try to think of some clever comeback. Anything to protect myself.
“I—” I start to say. “I wanted to help—”
“You caused a riot out there,” Spider interrupts me. “Ever stop to think of what might happen if you lost control of your powers?”
“I stepped in for Gemma,” I reply, suddenly angry. “I wasn’t about to wait around and see her killed.”
Spider’s lips curl up. “Maybe it’s time you keep your words locked inside that pretty little mouth, where they belong.”
My voice flattens. “Careful. Lest I hurt you.” I don’t even know where the words come from until they’ve already left me.
Enzo hushes us both with a shake of his head. “Dante,” he says, without bothering to glance over his shoulder. It takes me a second to realize that Enzo has revealed the Spider’s real name to me. “You’re dismissed.”
The boy’s rage changes to disbelief—at the use of his name in front of me, or at his dismissal, maybe both. “You’ll let this girl have her way?” he spits out. “She could have gotten one of us killed. She could have ruined the entire mission—”
“The Inquisition ruined the mission,” Enzo interrupts. His eyes stay on me, and I feel the familiar shudder pulse through my heart. “You’re dismissed. Do not make me say it again.”
Dante hesitates for a moment. Then he pushes away from the wall. “Watch your back, little lamb,” he snaps at me before stalking off down the hall. Windwalker watches him go, shrugs, and regards me with a suspicious look.
“Now what, Reaper?” she says. “A whole new plan for the Tournament of Storms?”
“No need.”
She snorts. “But they’ve disqualified Gemma,” she says. “She can’t get close to the royals if she won’t be able to race.”
Enzo studies me with a gaze so intense that it leaves my cheeks red. “Not if someone disguises her,” he replies.
I blink, my mind spinning with the new information they’re feeding me. First, Spider’s real name. Now, this. Is he . . . pleased with me? Permitting me to participate in the Daggers’ plans? I could learn to disguise Gemma. I could disguise any one of them to ride in the race.
Enzo steps closer until he’s now barely a foot away from me. The heat emanating from him burns my skin through the fabric of my clothes. He reaches out one hand and touches the clasp that pins my cloak at my neck. The metal turns white hot. When I look down, I see threads fraying on the cloak’s cloth, their ends blackened and singed. My fear rises up into my throat.
“You want to train faster,” he says.
I keep my chin up, refusing to let him see my anxiety. “Yes.”
He’s silent. A second later, he removes his hand from my cloak’s clasp, and the heat is sucked out of the melting metal as if it were never there. I’m shocked it didn’t burn straight through to my skin. When I look back up at Enzo, I notice a tiny spark of something else behind his rage. Something in his eyes that sends a different kind of warmth tingling through me.
“So be it,” he replies.
My heart jumps.
“But I warn you, Adelina. Dante is right. There is one line you do not cross with me.” His eyes narrow as he folds his hands behind his back. “You do not recklessly endanger my Elites.”
His words sting, labeling me as someone separate from them. I am separate from them. I am a spy and a traitor. Besides, what if things had gone horribly wrong when I used my powers? If I hadn’t been there, the other Daggers would surely have made a move to protect her, and they are certainly more skilled than I am. What if Gemma had instead been harmed during my antics, because I didn’t know what I was doing? What if the Inquisition had chosen to blame her for the false Elites on the roofs?
What if Teren had seen me out there?
“I’m sorry,” I murmur at the ground, hoping he doesn’t hear in my voice all the reasons why.
Enzo makes no indication that he has accepted my apology. His stare feels like it can burn straight through my skin. “This will be the last time you disobey me.” He says it without a single hesitation, and I realize, with a horrible shudder, that he means exactly what he says. If he finds out about Teren, he really will kill me.
“Tomorrow.” His voice is hard as diamond. “Be at the cavern by dawn. Let’s see how fast you can learn.” Then he breaks the stare, steps away from me, and leaves down the hall.
Windwalker lingers for a moment. She gives me a small nudge and a grudging smile, then extends a hand. “I’m Lucent,” she says.
I take her hand, unsure what to say in return. Another barrier between me and the Daggers breaks down. I don’t know whether to feel joy or guilt.
“That’s his way of showing thanks for your help, by the way,” she says before she turns away. “Congratulations. He’s going to train you himself.”