Adelina Amouteru
Today is supposed to be the first day of the Tournament of Storms. Instead, it’s an endgame with the Inquisition.
The main Estenzian square, usually left open and uncluttered, has been transformed into a sprawling marketplace of makeshift wooden stalls and colorful flags, a sea of shops and people that surrounds the main arena looming at the harbor. But with today’s Tournament now a funeral for the king and a challenge to the Daggers, the atmosphere is ominous and eerily quiet considering how many people are flooding in. Here and there, lines of Inquisitors observe the masses. Teren wants the public to see us dead, right before their eyes.
I walk with Violetta through the crowds. No invisibility right now; it’s too hard for me to hold such a shifting illusion for as long as we’ll need it—and with this many people, we’d draw suspicion the instant others bump shoulders with us. I have to save my energy for our attack. Instead, I’ve woven the illusion of different faces over each of ours. I changed my dark eye and the ruined side of my face into a flawless visage with bright green eyes, each of them framed with blond lashes instead of silver. I adjusted my skin color from dark olive to light cream, my lips to a pale pink blush. My hair looks red-gold, and my bone structure is different. Violetta, too, now has skin as fair as a Beldish girl’s, and her dark hair is instead a coppery blond.
We are still not perfect images. I never had time to train myself in mastering the illusion of faces, and even though I’m improving rapidly, there are little things that seem off and unnatural. It should work, if no one stares too hard—but people who linger too long on our faces will frown, because they will know that something is off about us. So we move on.
By the time we’ve reached the general vicinity of the arena, sweat is running down my back.
The arena is enormous, perhaps the largest structure I’ve ever seen, rows and rows of archways stacked upon one another in a giant ring of stone. The number of Inquisitors grows as we near the arena. Teren has stationed an army of enforcers here. I try to keep my face down as much as I can, to imitate the rest of the crowd, and shuffle past the Inquisitors without looking at them. I half expect them to recognize me, to see through my shimmering illusion, but they seem to buy my appearance whenever they peer down at my face. They are searching for the Daggers’ allies. Threads of fear blanket the entire square, thickening right in the center of the arena.
“Stop,” an Inquisitor says to me. I pause, remembering to look bewildered, and peer up at the Inquisitor. He stares down at my face. Beside me, Violetta stops moving. I suck in my breath and focus all my concentration on solidifying my illusion, emphasizing the subtle movements of my face, the pores of my skin and the details of my eyes.
The Inquisitor frowns. “Name?” he grunts.
I lift my chin and give him my most confident look. “Anne of House Tamerly,” I answer. I nod at Violetta, who curtsies prettily. “My cousin.”
“Where are you staying?”
I rattle off the name of a local inn I’d seen during the qualifying races. “My father is doing business in Estenzia for several months,” I add. “We heard this morning that the king’s funeral may also involve an excecution. Is it true?”
The Inquisitor casts me another dubious look, but people are crowding behind us and he has no time to waste. He finally grunts his approval at us and waves for us to continue. “Nothing you Beldish would appreciate,” he answers. “Carry on.”
I don’t dare look back, but behind us, I hear him turn his attention to questioning the next person.
The arena had been built to hold tens of thousands of people. The archways stretch up toward the sky and down into the ground, so that even though we entered the space from ground level, we now stand along a row of stone benches looking down at dozens of rows below us, benches that wrap around the arena in circles before ending at the bottom in a wide, central space. Hordes of people mill in the aisles. Among them are our patrons’ soldiers. I can’t tell which ones they are, but they are here, scattered and hidden among the masses. Waiting for Enzo’s signal. I crane my neck, searching for him. Violetta shakes her head, letting me know she doesn’t sense him nearby.
“Come on,” I whisper, tugging her hand. “Let’s get closer.” We head down the rows until we are almost at the very bottom, then take our seats in the first row.
Before us stretches the arena’s center. It is flooded with water, a deep lake with channels that filter out into the Sun Sea; the dark shapes of baliras swirl underneath the surface. Cutting above the lake is a wide strip of stone path stretching from where Violetta and I sit to the other side of the arena, with a larger round platform in the very center. During a typical celebration, balira riders will wait along the platform and call for their baliras, and when the enormous creatures burst from the water, the riders jump onto their backs and perform stunning acrobatics to a cheering audience. Masked revelers in elaborate costumes would parade along the path, magnificent in their glittering colors.
Not today. Today, white-cloaked Inquisitors line both sides of the stone path. In the water, baliras circle, their calls muted, haunting and ghostly. I turn away, then scan the rest of the filling arena. There’s a cloak of fear and anxiety that blankets the entire space. Some of the onlookers seem excited, restless for the promise of blood. Others stay seated, with their mouths pulled into grim lines, whispering among themselves. My restlessness rises with them. Threads glitter in the air, tempting me.
My breaths are starting to come in shallower gasps as I continue to hold our illusions steady across our faces. Violetta touches my shoulder. She nods toward the opposite end of the arena. “There,” she whispers. I follow her gaze. Enzo is somewhere in the crowd.
The Daggers should all be in position by now, along with their supporters.
Finally, after what seems like hours, all the Inquisitors lining the arena draw their swords and hoist them into the air for a traditional salute. The crowds hush. I look toward the royal pavilion, where the king would have once appeared with his crown and golden cloak.
Instead, the pavilion stays empty. And at the far end of the arena, Teren strides in with Inquisitors flanking him. A helmet shields his eyes from view, transforming him into the fearful image of someone not quite human. Right in front of him, weighed down in chains and guarded by more soldiers, with a blindfold over his eyes and a gag in his mouth, is Raffaele. My heart begins to pound.
Teren stops in the middle of the arena, then holds up his hands to the crowd. “My fellow citizens!” His voice echoes around the central structure. “It is with a heavy heart that we gather here today, not in celebration, but in mourning of our king’s death.” Not far from him, Inquisitors force Raffaele to his knees, draw their swords, and press the blades against his neck. “Your queen leads you now, Kenettrans. And with this new era, you will witness a historic moment, when our great and glorious nation is cleansed of the demons that have haunted us. That have tried to bring terror down on us.”
Beside me, Violetta grips my hand tighter. I look down and see that her knuckles have turned white.
Teren turns in a grand circle, his white cloak trailing, and smiles at the quiet audience. “Reaper!” he shouts. “A deal is a deal. I have your little consort-friend here”—he pauses to bow tauntingly in Raffaele’s direction—“and we are both waiting for you. Come out, demon.” His smile fades, replaced with a chilling blankness. “Come out, so we can play.”
I hold my breath. For a moment, nothing but silence blankets the crowd. The people shift uneasily, their eyes roaming for a sign of Enzo. My attention shifts to the long row of Inquisitors lining either side of the stone path over the water.
One of the Inquisitors near Teren breaks from the formation, then walks forward until the two stand barely ten feet apart. Some of the Inquisitors draw their swords—but most hesitate, thinking that the man is still one of them.
I grit my teeth and release the illusion of disguise on the newcomer. A sense of relief glides through me. Before everyone’s eyes, the Inquisitor gradually transforms from a white-cloaked figure to a tall boy in dark robes, his face hidden behind a silver mask and his hood pulled low over his face. Enzo.
Inquisitors lining the platform draw their swords, but Teren holds up a hand. He turns toward where Enzo now stands up. The crowd ripples with shouts, and I close my eye, savoring the wave of their fear. My strength builds.
The two face each other for a moment, neither speaking. Finally, Teren tilts his chin up. “How do I know this is your true self?” he shouts. “Is your little illusion worker hiding the other Elites here too?” Behind him, the Inquisitors press their swords tighter against Raffaele’s throat.
“You know who I am,” Enzo replies in a clear voice.
“Why should I believe you?”
“Why should I?” Enzo’s tone turns mocking.
Then, Teren reaches up and removes his helmet, revealing his wheat-blond hair. He tosses the helmet away. “Show me who you really are, Reaper,” he calls out, nodding at Enzo’s silver mask. “Or your friend dies.”
Enzo doesn’t hesitate. He reaches up and pulls the dark hood of his cloak from his face, exposing his bloodred hair. Then he puts his hand on his mask, pulls it away, and unveils his identity to the crowd. He, too, tosses the mask aside.
“A deal is a deal,” Enzo calls back.
Teren stares at him with a stony face. The crowd looks on. Everyone around us is stunned into silence. I sway, dizzy from the building tension. Our illusion of disguise shimmers at the edges of my vision.
“It’s the prince!” someone shouts from the arena.
Others take up the cry, and the revelation rips through the audience. Even though I can feel the overwhelming fear darkening the people, I can also sense the crackle of excitement, the emotions from malfetto supporters in the crowd and our own patrons’ fighters. Through the confusion, Teren nods at Enzo.
“No one will interfere,” he shouts. “I will face you alone, as long as you are bold enough to do the same.”
Enzo bows his head once in response.
Teren is lying. But so are we. This is a battle poised to erupt.
“It’s been a long time, Your Highness,” Teren says, pointing his sword at Enzo. I would have expected his tone to be mocking, but instead he’s serious. Not a hint of amusement is in his voice. To my surprise, he bows his head at Enzo in genuine respect. “Let’s see if you’ve gotten any better.”
Enzo pulls long, gleaming daggers from the sheaths on his back. The metal of each weapon turns red, then white hot. Fire explodes from Enzo’s hands and wraps both of them in a large ring, separating them from everyone else. The audience screams.
Teren lunges forward.
Enzo strikes out with his daggers, aiming for the eyes, but Teren puts up his shoulder and shields his face—the blow deflects harmlessly off his hard skin. Enzo rolls away, hops back to his feet, and whirls on his enemy again. They circle each other in a slow arc. Enzo twirls a dagger in one of his gloved hands.
“You seem hesitant this morning,” Teren calls out. He strikes at Enzo with unnerving speed. Enzo dances out of the way, spins, and lashes out as hard as he can with both daggers. One of them manages to make impact, striking Teren somewhere on his side—but it looks as if someone were trying to stab through soft wood. Teren grunts, but the instant the blade leaves his side, he grins.
“Use your fire, Reaper,” he taunts. “Give me a challenge.”
Enzo attacks again. This time, his blades burst into flames, carving streaks of fire in the air as he lunges for Teren. He feints left, then twists in midair and slashes out at Teren’s face. Sure enough, Teren jerks his head away from the blow—but Enzo moves along with him, twin blades burning, anticipating where he’ll turn, and brings his second dagger viciously up toward Teren’s eyes. The Inquisitor darts away barely in the nick of time. Enzo’s blade scrapes against the side of Teren’s cheek, leaving a gash that closes right up.
Teren smiles. “Better.”
My turn. With a deep breath, I drop the disguises on Violetta and myself, then immediately cloak us in invisibility. Around us, people gasp in shock—but we are already on the move. I hurry to the small gate at the edge of the row, which leads into the lake’s pathway. We cross over. Inquisitors line the pathway, poised to attack if given the command. I carefully make our way forward.
“Tell me,” Enzo calls out over the roar of the flames. “Why do you turn your back on others like yourself?”
Teren doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he draws his sword and strikes out at Enzo. Enzo leaps to the side, but not before the sword’s blade nicks a line in his arm. He conjures a burst of fire that swallows Teren whole—but Teren doesn’t show any sign of pain. He steps out of the flames with a wicked smile, his skin crisping, darkening, and then returning to normal. The edges of his cloak fray and burn from the heat, but the clothes in contact with his skin stay untouched, as if behind some shield of protection.
“I never turned my back,” Teren calls out. “I am the only one willing to help. Look at what we’re doing right now, Reaper—our powers are curses from the Underworld, and we use them to destroy everything we touch.”
“Destruction is a choice.” Enzo raises one hand, calling the flames hotter, brighter, until the fire turns blinding white and engulfs Teren entirely. If Teren can’t see, he can’t attack. Enzo hefts a dagger. The fire suddenly vanishes—and in the abrupt absence, Enzo flings the dagger at Teren’s eyes.
Teren deflects the dagger with his sword, then catches the dagger in midair and throws it back. Enzo ducks to the ground in a graceful sweep. “I am cursed, just as you are. Yet, while you continue to defend those born from the leftovers of the blood fever, I’m doing what the gods always intended.” Teren’s pale eyes seem to soak in the flames that surround them, shading them a terrifying color. His lips curl into a snarl.
Enzo pushes against Teren’s blade. His muscles bulge under his sleeves. Teren is simply too strong—I can see Enzo’s strength slowly ebbing away. Still, I can hear Enzo’s voice ringing out over the melee. “Perhaps you do it because you love your powers,” he shouts, mocking, “and you want to be the only one with such a gift.”
Teren’s smile vanishes. “How little you know about me, Your Highness,” he replies. “Even after all these years.”
Enzo lunges forward and slashes at Teren’s eyes. This time, his blade manages to cut the edge of Teren’s eyelid before he darts away. When he looks at Enzo again, blood smears the film over his left eye, turning the pale iris bright red.
Teren launches himself at Enzo. He sidesteps with him, then plunges a dagger deep into Enzo’s shoulder. I gasp. The flames around them falter. He shudders—but still manages to yank himself away. The blade tears out of his shoulder. Violetta and I are now so close that I can feel the heat from the fire. We are in position. Is everyone else too?
Teren’s eyes burn. Enzo steps in front of Raffaele and turns to face Teren again, ready for another attack. Blood drips from his shoulder. Then—he raises a dagger high in the air and waves it once.
Our signal.
Several things happen at once. Arrows hit the two Inquisitors holding Raffaele down. A curtain of wind smashes into the other Inquisitors nearest Raffaele—it flings them all into the water in a chorus of shrieks. From deep within the lake, two baliras explode from the surface, translucent bodies arcing over the path where Violetta and I are crouching. I flatten against the stone. My sister follows. The baliras send tides crashing against the platform, and rain down glittering water across the entire arena. Their eyes are black with fury, their calls thundering. One of them flips in midair, its enormous fleshy wings coming down on a line of Inquisitors at the end of the stone path. They are swept into the water. Another enormous wing sweeps right over our heads, flinging away the Inquisitors closest to us.
The other balira has a rider on board. Gemma. I look on as her creature turns, allowing her to reach down and clasp Raffaele’s arm. She pulls him to safety on board the balira’s back.
Our turn. Violetta reaches out with her energy at the same time I reach out with mine. She pulls Teren’s powers away from him. Out on the platform, Teren’s eyes bulge—he stumbles backward a step, then crouches down on one knee as if someone had struck a violent blow. Violetta sucks her breath in sharply. She won’t be able to hold his powers back for long.
I drop our invisibility. For the first time, we are exposed in the arena. I focus all my concentration and reach out for Enzo’s energy. In a flash, he transforms from himself into an exact copy of Teren.
The arena bursts into a scene of chaos. All across the stands, patrons and their fighters leap into combat, attacking Inquisitors wherever they stand, sending the people into a panic. Some of the Inquisitors still on the stone pathway in the arena’s center look poised to join the duel between Teren and Enzo—but with the two now identical, they can’t seem to tell which one is which.
Enzo doesn’t wait. He leaps forward, dagger raised. Teren manages to hold up his sword just in time to meet Enzo’s blade, but in his sudden weakness, he can’t deflect it. The two tumble backward onto the ground—Teren shrieks as Enzo’s blade finally makes contact, white hot and sharp, slicing deep into Teren’s shoulder and burning his flesh. Enzo’s second blade seeks out his heart. In a rage, Teren slashes out at Enzo. Even now, he still manages to force the prince to dance away. He staggers to his feet. It takes me a moment to realize that he’s laughing. He notices Violetta and me crouched at the edge of the platform. He scowls.
“About time you made your move,” he shouts through the chaos.
The words have scarcely left his mouth when I notice that Inquisitors, hundreds—thousands—of them, are flooding into the arena. We were ready for him—but he was ready for us too. The people around us leap to their feet, screaming, and scramble for the nearest exit, but Inquisitors fence everyone in. It will be a bloodbath in here, whether or not we win.
I narrow my eye. The darkness building in me is overwhelming now, feeding on an entire arena’s worth of terror and fury. I reach out, take hold of that energy, find Teren, and pull.
He freezes in mid-attack, then falls to his knees. He shrieks in pain as I conjure the most agonizing illusion I can muster. Enzo engulfs him in flames, then lunges forward, aiming at his eyes.
This is it. My heart leaps in anticipation. He’s going to kill Teren.
Something cold pushes violently back against my energy. I gasp. Teren’s fighting me. My illusion on him wavers, then breaks. Violetta puts a hand on her forehead and stumbles backward. “I can’t hold on,” she says hoarsely to me, before collapsing to her knees. Out in the arena, Teren sucks in a deep breath of relief as his burned skin starts to heal over. He starts fighting back. The window to fatally injure him is closing. I look at my sister. Her eyes roll back, and, exhausted, she faints on the path. My concentration flickers.
“Violetta,” I shout, grabbing her arm. Then I glance to where Enzo is fighting Teren. My illusion over Enzo has vanished too, and his dark-robed figure contrasts starkly against Teren’s white uniform.
“Leave her!” When I look up, I see Michel standing over us, his eyes wild. He has joined us on the platform. He hoists Violetta up against him. “We’ve broken through one of the entrances—I’ll get her out. Go!”
I hesitate for a split second before nodding. Then Michel spirits her away, and I turn back to the arena. Never in my life have I seen so many Inquisitors. Their figures swarm the stands, clashing with Enzo’s fighters. In the chaos, I climb over the short wall separating the seats from the arena’s center, land on the stone path dividing the water, veil myself in invisibility, and rush toward where Enzo and Teren are fighting. My concentration snaps back into place, fueled by the panic, and Enzo again turns into a mirror image of Teren.
But I’m getting tired too. My powers are starting to slip out of my control.
I stop a short distance from them. Then I press my hands together, reach out, and weave a circle of energy threads around Teren. I conjure a dozen versions of himself, identical in every way, each of them lunging at the real Teren with daggers drawn. The illusion is brief, but it works. Teren hesitates for a moment, suddenly unsure of where to look. His enemy is everywhere all at once.
Enzo—the real Enzo—grabs Teren around his neck. He tries to stab at his eyes, but Teren manages to twist his face away at the last second. Enzo’s blade slices across his neck, leaving a deep gash. Immediately, it starts to heal. Teren lets out a gurgling growl and slams his head backward, forcing Enzo off him, then staggers forward and spits blood from his mouth. I can’t hold the dozen illusions anymore. The figures disappear, once again leaving Enzo alone with Teren.
Teren is breathing heavily. Even he has his limits. His eyes lock on to me again. I realize that I’m too tired to hold my own invisibility illusion.
“There you are,” he says, his voice low and raspy, his chiseled face turned into a frightening snarl. His attention flickers away from Enzo as he dashes for me. “Little illusion worker.”
Then it happens.
Teren lunges for me. His sword slashes me deep across my chest, slicing through my robes and into my skin. Pain hits me everywhere. I fall. My head hits the ground hard enough to send the world spinning. Suddenly, everything slows. I lift my hand and see it stained with my own blood. I try to reach for my energy, but everything moves too slowly, and my thoughts form in disjointed pieces. Broken illusions flash around me, my powers gone unsteady and uncontrolled. Through it, Enzo rushes forward to step between the two of us. I have . . . hit my head . . . Teren rushes at me with his sword. All I see are his pale, furious eyes. A nightmare.
I strike blindly out with my illusions. Teren’s there, blurred before me. I try to scream at him—but I cannot form the thought. My powers spark wildly out of control. Teren’s face changes into Dante’s, then back again. A memory clicks into place. I suddenly see before me a million glittering threads. I killed him in that dark alley, on the night the king died. I killed with an illusion of extreme pain.
I reach down into my chest, find the last of my strength, and pull on Teren’s energy. Let him feel agony like he’s never known. Let him suffer. I put everything I have into this, letting my hatred of him go unchecked.
Teren lets out a wrenching cry of pain. He falls to his knees.
Wait. This isn’t right.
I blink, confused, trying to clear my hazy thoughts. My illusions continue to work on him, wild and uncontrolled and untethered, blind. Blind. Then I realize—why am I able to affect Teren? He cannot be injured. And Violetta isn’t here to stop him.
And that’s when I realize, in horror, that I have attacked Enzo instead. Enzo was the one who had blurred toward me—he had moved toward me in an attempt to protect me. Enzo is the one that I sent staggering to his knees.
I yank my powers back instantly, but it is too late. Teren—the real Teren—seizes the moment. He takes his sword. He plunges it deep into Enzo’s chest. It runs all the way through, the bloody point emerging from Enzo’s back right between his shoulder blades.
No.
Enzo lets out a terrible gasp. Teren’s mouth tightens in triumph. He clutches Enzo’s robes in one fist, then yanks him closer, shoving the sword in deeper. I cannot move. I cannot think. I can’t even scream. My shaking hand reaches out for him, but I am too weak to do anything else. All my powers—undone in the one moment when they would have mattered the most. I struggle to regain control, but it makes no difference now. Enzo trembles on the blade. Teren pulls him close and bends toward his ear. Somehow, in the midst of the arena’s chaos, the Lead Inquisitor’s words sound clear.
“I win,” he says. For a moment, their eyes lock—Teren’s, pale, pulsing, mad; Enzo’s, dark, scarlet, dying. Then he pulls his blade out. Enzo collapses to the ground. I run to his fallen figure, as if this might just be an illusion—but he stays still and unmoving. Somewhere, Teren’s voice reaches me. “Thank you for your help,” he says.
I put my hands on Enzo’s face. His name falls from my lips, hoarse with pain. I had lashed out at him with all of my fury—but was it rage meant for Teren, or was it really my internalized anger at Enzo, for using me, for leading me on? Maybe there’s still a chance. He fights, with the last of his strength, to return my gaze. What do I see there? Is it betrayal? I’m sobbing now—tears fill my vision and spill down my cheek. There is nothing to be done.
Enzo looks at me. He blinks rapidly as he tries to say something, but blood froths at the edges of his mouth. He coughs. Red speckles land on my arm. I look on in disbelief as his eyes meet mine one last time. Then his life fades away. Just like that.
My mind goes blank. The world turns silent.
The sky above us flickers, then turns a furious shade of scarlet, a vision of blood, deep and dark. I crouch, my hands ripping at the ground, my emotions unwinding, my energy surging to a level I’ve never felt before. My gaze fixes on Teren. I hurl myself helplessly against his invincible power, trying desperately to grasp on to him in some way, to hurt him, hurt him, hurt him. But I can’t. I’m useless.
He could slay me right now, if he wanted to. But he no longer wears his eerie smile or his cold amusement. He looks serious, grave, and thoughtful.
“You don’t belong with them, Adelina Amouteru,” he says. “You belong with me.”
Somehow, somewhere—a curtain of wind lifts me up into the air. I struggle against it, wanting to stay in the arena. I want to destroy Teren. But I feel Lucent’s arms wrap around me, then her pulling me up onto the back of a balira. Below us lies the wreckage of the arena, the dead and dying, the smoke and carnage, the white cloaks littered in clusters, the bodies of the dead who had fought for Enzo.
None of that matters now. The prince is dead.
Teren Santoro
Teren looks up at the fleeing Elites as they spirit away the prince’s body. Behind them are Inquisitors on the backs of baliras, chasing them down. Teren watches a moment longer, picturing Enzo’s dead face as they go. The young prince’s face was gray and lifeless, eyes shuttered, heart still. Blood stains the ground of the arena’s platform.
Teren stays quiet. He does not smile. Enzo, whom he remembered from childhood, the boy who always defended him in front of his father. What a shame that he was the Reaper, all along. It had to be done. Dirty malfetto. Now the world is a better place, and Giulietta can rule. Teren’s face remains a portrait carved from stone, but deep in his chest, he feels a twinge of loss.
What a shame.
Trust is when we plummet into the depths of an abyss and
reach out for each other’s hands.
—Amaderan Poetry, various authors