DEDICATION

ToMom,Dad,andMorgan,whowantedtoknowwhathappenednext,evenwhenI

didn’t.

CONTENTS

Dedication

OneTwoThreeFourFiveSixSevenEight

NineTenElevenTwelveThirteenFourteenFifteenSixteenSeventeenEighteenNineteenTwentyTwenty-One

Twenty-TwoTwenty-ThreeTwenty-FourTwenty-FiveTwenty-SixTwenty-SevenTwenty-EightEpilogue

AcknowledgmentsBackAdAbouttheAuthorCredits

CopyrightAboutthePublisher

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ONE

I hateFirstFriday. Itmakesthevillagecrowded,andnow,in the heat of high summer,that’s the last thing anyonewants. Frommy place in theshade it isn’t so bad, but thestink of bodies, all sweatingwith the morning work, isenough tomakemilk curdle.The air shimmers with heat

and humidity, and even thepuddles from yesterday’sstorm are hot, swirling withrainbow streaks of oil andgrease.

Themarketdeflates,witheveryone closing up theirstalls for the day. Themerchants are distracted,careless, and it’seasy formeto takewhatever Iwant fromtheir wares. By the time I’mdone,my pockets bulgewith

trinketsandI’vegotanapplefor the road. Not bad for afew minutes’ work. As thethrongofpeoplemoves, I letmyself be taken awayby thehumancurrent.Myhandsdartinandout,alwaysinfleetingtouches. Some paper billsfrom a man’s pocket, abracelet from a woman’swrist—nothing too big.Villagers are too busyshuffling along to notice a

pickpocketintheirmidst.The high, stilt buildings

for which the village isnamed (the Stilts, veryoriginal) rise all around us,ten feet above the muddyground. In the spring thelowerbankisunderwater,butright now it’s August, whendehydration and sun sicknessstalk the village. Almosteveryonelooksforwardtothefirst Friday of each month,

when work and school endearly. But not me. No, I’drather be in school, learningnothinginaclassroomfullofchildren.

Not that I’ll be in schoolmuch longer. My eighteenthbirthday is coming, andwithit, conscription. I’m notapprenticed, I don’t have ajob,soI’mgoingtobesenttothewar likeall theother idleones. It’s no wonder there’s

noworkleft,whatwitheveryman,woman,andchildtryingtostayoutofthearmy.

My brothers went to warwhentheyturnedeighteen,allthree of them sent to fightLakelanders.OnlyShadecanwrite worth a lick, and hesendsmeletterswhenhecan.Ihaven’theardfrommyotherbrothers,Bree andTramy, inover a year. But no news isgood news. Families can go

yearswithouthearingathing,only to find their sons anddaughterswaitingonthefrontdoorstep, home on leave orsometimes blissfullydischarged. But usually youreceivealettermadeofheavypaper, stamped with theking’s crown seal below ashort thank-you for yourchild’s life.Maybe you evenget a few buttons from theirtorn,obliterateduniforms.

Iwas thirteenwhenBreeleft. He kissed me on thecheek and gave me a singlepair of earrings for my littlesister, Gisa, and me to split.They were dangling glassbeads, thehazypinkcolorofsunset. We pierced our earsourselves that night. Tramyand Shade kept up thetradition when they went.NowGisaandIhaveoneeareachsetwiththreetinystones

to remind us of our brothersfighting somewhere. I didn’treally believe they’d have togo, not until the legionnaireinhispolishedarmorshowedup and took them away oneafter another. And this fall,they’ll come for me. I’vealready started saving—andstealing—to buy Gisa someearringswhenIgo.

Don’t think about it.That’s what Mom always

says, about the army, aboutmy brothers, abouteverything. Great advice,Mom.

Down the street, at thecrossingofMillandMarcherroads,thecrowdthickensandmore villagers join thecurrent.Agangofkids, littlethieves in training, fluttersthrough the fray with sticky,searchingfingers.They’retooyoung to be good at it, and

Securityofficersarequick tointervene. Usually the kidswould be sent to the stocks,or the jail at the outpost, butthe officerswant to see FirstFriday.Theysettleforgivingthe ringleaders a few harshknocks before letting themgo.Smallmercies.

Thetiniestpressureatmywaist makes me spin, actingoninstinct.Igrabatthehandfoolish enough to pickpocket

me, squeezing tight so thelittleimpwon’tbeabletorunaway. But instead of ascrawny kid, I find myselfstaringupatasmirkingface.

Kilorn Warren. Afisherman’sapprentice,awarorphan,andprobablymyonlyreal friend. We used to beateachotherupaschildren,butnow that we’re older—andhe’s a foot taller thanme—Itry to avoid scuffles. He has

hisuses,Isuppose.Reachinghighshelves,forexample.

“You’re getting faster.”He chuckles, shaking offmygrip.

“Or you’re gettingslower.”

He rolls his eyes andsnatches the apple out ofmyhand.

“Are we waiting forGisa?” he asks, taking a biteofthefruit.

“She has a pass for theday.Working.”

“Then let’s get moving.Don’t want to miss theshow.”

“Andwhat a tragedy thatwouldbe.”

“Tsk, tsk, Mare,” heteases,shakingafingeratme.“Thisissupposedtobefun.”

“It’s supposed to be awarning,youdumbfool.”

But he’s already walking

off with his long strides,forcing me to almost trot tokeepup.Hisgaitweaves,offbalance. Sea legs, he callsthem,thoughhe’sneverbeentothefar-offsea.Iguesslonghours onhismaster’s fishingboat, even on the river, areboundtohavesomeeffect.

Like my dad, Kilorn’sfatherwassentofftowar,butwhereas mine returnedmissingalegandalung,Mr.

Warren came back in a shoebox. Kilorn’s mother ran offafter that, leaving her youngson to fend for himself. Healmost starved to death butsomehow kept picking fightswith me. I fed him so that Iwouldn’thavetokickaroundabagofbones,andnow, tenyearslater,hereheis.Atleasthe’s apprenticed and won’tfacethewar.

Weget to the foot of the

hill, where the crowd isthicker,pushingandproddingon all sides. First Fridayattendance is mandatory,unlessyouare,likemysister,an “essential laborer.” As ifembroideringsilkisessential.ButtheSilverslovetheirsilk,don’tthey?EventheSecurityofficers, a few of themanyway, can be bribed withpiecessewnbymysister.Notthat I know anything about

that.The shadows around us

deepen as we climb up thestone stairs, toward the crestof thehill.Kilorn takes themtwoata time,almost leavingme behind, but he stops towait. He smirks down at meand tosses a lock of faded,tawny hair out of his greeneyes.

“Sometimes I forget youhavethelegsofachild.”

“Better than the brain ofone,” I snap, giving him alightsmackonthecheekasIpass.Hislaughterfollowsmeupthesteps.

“You’re grouchier thanusual.”

“Ijusthatethesethings.”“I know,” he murmurs,

solemnforonce.And then we’re in the

arena, the sun blazing hotoverhead.Builttenyearsago,

thearena iseasily the largeststructure in the Stilts. It’snothing compared to thecolossalonesinthecities,butstill, the soaring arches ofsteel,thethousandsoffeetofconcrete,areenoughtomakeavillagegirlcatchherbreath.

Security officers areeverywhere, their black-and-silver uniforms standing outin the crowd. This is FirstFriday,andtheycan’twaitto

watch the proceedings. Theycarry long rifles or pistols,thoughtheydon’tneedthem.As is customary, the officersare Silvers, and Silvers havenothingtofearfromusReds.Everyoneknowsthat.Wearenot their equals, though youwouldn’t know it fromlookingatus.Theonly thingthat serves to distinguish us,outwardly at least, is thatSilvers stand tall. Our backs

are bent by work andunanswered hope and theinevitable disappointmentwithourlotinlife.

Inside the open-toppedarenaisjustashotasout,andKilorn, always on his toes,leadsme to some shade.Wedon’tgetseatshere,justlongconcretebenches,butthefewSilvernoblesupaboveenjoycool, comfortable boxes.Theretheyhavedrinks,food,

ice even in high summer,cushioned chairs, electriclights,andothercomfortsI’llnever enjoy. The Silversdon’t bat an eye at anyof it,complaining about the“wretched conditions.” I’llgive them a wretchedcondition, if I ever have thechance. All we get are hardbenches and a few screechyvideo screens almost toobrightandtoonoisytostand.

“Bet you a day’s wagesit’sanotherstrongarmtoday,”Kilornsays, tossinghisapplecoretowardthearenafloor.

“Nobet,” I shoot back athim.ManyRedsgambletheirearningsonthefights,hopingto win a little something tohelpthemgetthroughanotherweek. But not me, not evenwithKilorn. It’seasier tocutthebookie’spursethantrytowin money from it. “You

shouldn’t waste your moneylikethat.”

“It’s not a waste if I’mright.It’salwaysastrongarmbeatinguponsomeone.”

Strongarms usually makeup at least one-half of thefights,theirskillsandabilitiesbettersuitedtothearenathanalmostanyotherSilver.Theyseemtorevelinit,usingtheirsuperhuman strength to tossother champions around like

ragdolls.“What about the other

one?” I ask, thinking abouttherangeofSilversthatcouldappear. Telkies, swifts,nymphs, greenys, stoneskins—all of them terrible towatch.

“Not sure. Hopefullysomething cool. I could usesomefun.”

Kilorn and I don’t reallyseeeyetoeyeontheFeatsof

First Friday. For me,watching two champions ripinto each other is notenjoyable,butKilornlovesit.Let them ruin each other, hesays.They’renotourpeople.

He doesn’t understandwhattheFeatsareabout.Thisisn’t mindless entertainment,meanttogiveussomerespitefrom grueling work. This iscalculated, cold, a message.Only Silvers can fight in the

arenas because only a Silvercan survive the arena. Theyfighttoshowustheirstrengthandpower.Youarenomatchfor us.We are your betters.We are gods. It’s written inevery superhuman blow thechampionsland.

And they’re absolutelyright.LastmonthIwatchedaswift battle a telky and,though the swift couldmovefaster than theeyecouldsee,

the telky stopped him cold.With just the power of hismind, he lifted the otherfighter right off the ground.The swift started to choke; Ithink the telky had someinvisible grip on his throat.When the swift’s face turnedblue, they called the match.Kilorn cheered. He’d bet onthetelky.

“Ladies and gentlemen,SilversandReds,welcometo

First Friday, the Feat ofAugust.” The announcer’svoice echoes around thearena,magnifiedbythewalls.He sounds bored, as usual,andIdon’tblamehim.

Once, the Feats were notmatchesatall,butexecutions.Prisoners and enemies of thestatewould be transported toArcheon, the capital, andkilled in front of a Silvercrowd. I guess the Silvers

liked that, and the matchesbegan. Not to kill but toentertain. Then they becamethe Feats and spread out tothe other cities, to differentarenas and differentaudiences. Eventually theRedsweregrantedadmission,confinedtothecheapseats.Itwasn’t long until the Silversbuiltarenaseverywhere,evenvillages like the Stilts, andattendance that was once a

gift became a mandatorycurse.MybrotherShadesaysit’s because arena citiesenjoyed a marked reductionin Red crime, dissent, eventhe few acts of rebellion.NowSilversdon’thavetouseexecution or the legions oreven Security to keep thepeace; two champions canscareusjustaseasily.

Today, the two inquestion look up to the job.

Thefirsttowalkoutontothewhite sand is announced asCantosCarros, a Silver fromHarbor Bay in the east. Thevideo screen blares a clearpictureofthewarrior,andnooneneeds to tellme this is astrongarm. He has arms liketreetrunks,cordedandveinedandstrainingagainsthisownskin. When he smiles, I cansee all his teeth are gone orbroken. Maybe he ran afoul

of his own toothbrush whenhewasagrowingboy.

Nexttome,Kilorncheersand the other villagers roarwith him. A Security officerthrows a loaf of bread at thelouder ones for their trouble.To my left, another hands ascreaming child a brightyellow piece of paper. ’Lecpapers—extra electricityrations. All of it to make uscheer, tomake us scream, to

forceus towatch,evenifwedon’twantto.

“That’sright,lethimhearyou!” the announcer drawls,forcing as much enthusiasmintohisvoiceashecan.“Andhere we have his opponent,straight from the capital,SamsonMerandus.”

The other warrior lookspale and weedy next to thehuman-shaped hunk ofmuscle, but his blue steel

armor is fine andpolished toa high sheen. He’s probablythe second son of a secondson, trying towin renown inthe arena. Though he shouldbe scared, he looks strangelycalm.

His last name soundsfamiliar, but that’s notunusual.ManySilversbelongto famous families, calledhouses, with dozens ofmembers. The governing

family of our region, theCapital Valley, is HouseWelle,thoughI’veneverseenGovernor Welle in my life.He never visits it more thanonce or twice a year, andeventhen,henever stoops toentering a Red village likemine. I saw his riverboatonce, a sleek thing withgreen-and-gold flags. He’s agreeny, and when he passed,the trees on the bank burst

into blossom and flowerspopped out of the ground. Ithoughtitwasbeautiful,untilone of the older boys threwrocks at his boat. The stonesfell harmlessly into the river.Theyputtheboyinthestocksanyway.

“It’llbethestrongarmforsure.”

Kilornfrownsatthesmallchampion. “How do youknow? What’s Samson’s

power?”“Who cares, he’s still

going to lose,” I scoff,settlingintowatch.

The usual call rings outover the arena.Many rise totheirfeet,eagertowatch,butIstayseatedinsilentprotest.As calm as I might look,anger boils in my skin.Anger, and jealousy.We aregods,echoesinmyhead.

“Champions, set your

feet.”They do, digging in their

heelsonoppositesidesofthearena.Gunsaren’tallowedinarenafights,soCantosdrawsa short, wide sword. I doubthe’ll need it. Samsonproduces no weapon, hisfingers merely twitching byhisside.

A low, humming electrictonerunsthroughthearena.Ihate this part. The sound

vibrates in my teeth, in mybones, pulsing until I thinksomething might shatter. Itendsabruptlywithachirpingchime.Itbegins.Iexhale.

It looks like a bloodbathright away. Cantos barrelsforward like a bull, kickingupsand inhiswake.Samsontries to dodge Cantos, usinghis shoulder to slide aroundthe Silver, but the strongarmis quick. He gets hold of

Samson’s leg and tosses himacross the arena like he’smade of feathers. Thesubsequent cheers coverSamson’s roar of pain as hecollideswiththecementwall,but it’s written on his face.Before he can hope to stand,Cantos is over him, heavinghim skyward. He hits thesand in a heap of what canonly be broken bones butsomehow rises to his feet

again.“Is he a punching bag?”

Kilorn laughs.“Lethimhaveit,Cantos!”

Kilorn doesn’t care aboutanextraloafofbreadorafewmore minutes of electricity.That’snotwhyhecheers.Hehonestly wants to see blood,Silver blood—silverblood—stain the arena. It doesn’tmatter that the blood iseverything we aren’t,

everything we can’t be,everything wewant. He justneeds to see it and trickhimselfintothinkingtheyaretrulyhuman,thattheycanbehurtanddefeated.ButIknowbetter.Theirbloodisathreat,awarning,apromise.Wearenot the same and never willbe.

He’s not disappointed.Even the box seats can seethemetallic, iridescent liquid

dripping from Samson’smouth.Itreflectsthesummersun like a watery mirror,painting a river down hisneckandintohisarmor.

This is the true divisionbetweenSilversandReds:thecolor of our blood. Thissimple difference somehowmakesthemstronger,smarter,betterthanus.

Samson spits, sending asunburstofsilverbloodacross

the arena. Ten yards away,Cantos tightens his grip onhis sword, ready toincapacitate Samson and endthis.

“Poor fool,” I mutter. ItseemsKilornisright.Nothingbutapunchingbag.

Cantos pounds throughthe sand, sword held high,eyes on fire. And then hefreezes midstep, his armorclanking with the sudden

stop. From themiddle of thearena, the bleeding warriorpointsatCantos,witha staretobreakbone.

Samson flicks his fingersand Cantos walks, perfectlyin time with Samson’smovements. His mouth fallsopen, like he’s gone slow orstupid.Likehismindisgone.

Ican’tbelievemyeyes.Adeathlyquiet fallsover

the arena as we watch, not

understanding the scenebelow us. Even Kilorn hasnothingtosay.

“A whisper,” I breathealoud.

Never before have I seenone in the arena—I doubtanyone has. Whispers arerare, dangerous, andpowerful, even among theSilvers, even in the capital.The rumorsabout themvary,but it boils down to

something simple andchilling: they can enter yourhead,readyourthoughts,andcontrolyourmind.Andthisisexactly what Samson isdoing, having whispered hiswaypastCantos’sarmorandmuscle, into his very brain,wheretherearenodefenses.

Cantos raises his sword,hands trembling. He’s tryingtofightSamson’spower.Butstrong as he is, there’s no

fighting the enemy in hismind.

Another twist ofSamson’s hand andsilverblood splashes acrossthe sand as Cantos plungeshisswordstraightthroughhisarmor, into the flesh of hisownstomach.Evenupintheseats,Icanhearthesickeningsquelch of metal cuttingthroughmeat.

Asthebloodgushesfrom

Cantos,gaspsechoacrossthearena. We’ve never seen somuchbloodherebefore.

Blue lights flash to life,bathing the arena floor in aghostly glow, signaling theend of the match. Silverhealers run across the sand,rushing to the fallen Cantos.Silversaren’tsupposedtodiehere. Silvers are supposed tofight bravely, to flaunt theirskills, toputonagoodshow

—butnotdie. After all, theyaren’tReds.

Officersmove faster thanI’ve ever seen before.A feware swifts, rushing to and froinabluras theyherdusout.Theydon’twantusaroundifCantos dies on the sand.Meanwhile, Samson stridesfrom the arena like a titan.His gaze falls on Cantos’sbody, and I expect him tolook apologetic. Instead, his

face is blank, emotionless,and so cold. The match wasnothing to him. We arenothingtohim.

In school, we learnedabout the world before ours,abouttheangelsandgodsthatlived in the sky, ruling theearth with kind and lovinghands. Some say those arejust stories, but I don’tbelievethat.

The gods rule us still.

They have come down fromthe stars. And they are nolongerkind.

TWO

Our house is small, even byStilts standards, but at leastwe have a view. Before hisinjury,duringoneofhisarmyleaves, Dad built the househigh so we could see acrossthe river. Even through thehaze of summer you can seethe cleared pockets of landthat were once forest, now

logged into oblivion. Theylooklikeadisease,buttothenorthandwest,theuntouchedhills are a calm reminder.There is so much more outthere.Beyondus,beyondtheSilvers, beyond everything Iknow.

I climb the ladder up tothe house, over worn woodshaped to the hands thatascend and descend everyday. From this height I can

see a few boats headingupriver, proudly flying theirbright flags. Silvers. They’rethe only ones rich enough touse private transportation.While they enjoy wheeledtransports, pleasure boats,even high-flying airjets, weget nothing more than ourowntwofeet,orapushcycleifwe’relucky.

The boats must beheading to Summerton, the

small city that springs to lifearound the king’s summerresidence. Gisa was theretoday, aiding the seamstressshe is apprenticed to. Theyoften go to the market therewhen the king visits, to sellher wares to the Silvermerchants and nobles whofollow the royals likeducklings.ThepalaceitselfisknownastheHalloftheSun,and it’s supposed to be a

marvel,butI’veneverseenit.I don’t knowwhy the royalshave a second house,especially since the capitalpalace is so fine andbeautiful.ButlikeallSilvers,they don’t act out of need.Theyaredrivenbywant.Andwhattheywant,theyget.

BeforeIopen thedoor totheusualchaos,Ipattheflagfluttering from the porch.Three red stars on yellowed

fabric, one for each brother,androomformore.Roomforme. Most houses have flagslike this, some with blackstripes instead of stars inquiet reminder of deadchildren.

Inside,Mom sweats overthe stove, stirring a pot ofstewwhilemyfatherglaresatit from his wheelchair. Gisaembroiders at the table,making something beautiful

and exquisite and entirelybeyondmycomprehension.

“I’m home,” I say to noone in particular. Dadanswerswithawave,Momanod,andGisadoesn’tlookupfromherscrapofsilk.

Idropmypouchofstolengoods next to her, letting thecoins jingle as much as theycan.“I think I’vegotenoughtogetapropercakeforDad’sbirthday.Andmorebatteries,

enoughtolastthemonth.”Gisa eyes the pouch,

frowningwith distaste. She’sonly fourteen but sharp forherage.“Onedaypeoplearegoing to come and takeeverythingyouhave.”

“Jealousydoesn’tbecomeyou, Gisa,” I scold, pattingheronthehead.Herhandsflyup to her perfect, glossy redhair,brushingitbackintohermeticulousbun.

I’ve always wanted herhair,thoughI’dnevertellherthat. Where hers is like fire,myhair iswhatwecall riverbrown.Darkat the root,paleat the ends, as the colorleechesfromourhairwiththestressofStiltslife.Mostkeeptheir hair short to hide theirgray ends but I don’t. I likethe reminder that even myhair knows life shouldn’t bethisway.

“I’m not jealous,” shehuffs, returning to her work.She stitches flowersmade offire, each one a beautifulflame of thread against oilyblacksilk.

“That’s beautiful,Gee.” Iletmy hand trace one of theflowers, marveling at thesilkyfeelofit.Sheglancesupand smiles softly, showingeven teeth. As much as wefight, she knows she’s my

littlestar.And everyone knows I’m

the jealousone,Gisa. Ican’tdo anything but steal frompeople who can actually dothings.

Once she finishes herapprenticeship, she’ll be abletoopenherownshop.Silverswill come fromall around topayherforhandkerchiefsandflags and clothing. Gisa willachieve what few Reds do

and live well. She’ll providefor our parents and give meand my brothers menial jobstogetusoutofthewar.Gisais going to save us one day,with nothing more thanneedleandthread.

“Night and day, mygirls,”Mommutters, runningafingerthroughgrayinghair.She doesn’t mean it as aninsultbutapricklytruth.Gisais skilled, pretty, and sweet.

I’m a bit rougher, as Momkindly puts it. The dark toGisa’s light. I suppose theonlycommonthingsbetweenusarethesharedearrings,thememoryofourbrothers.

Dad wheezes from hiscornerandhammershischestwith a fist. This is common,since he has only one reallung. Luckily the skill of aRed medic saved him,replacing the collapsed lung

with a device that couldbreathe for him. It wasn’t aSilverinvention,astheyhavenoneedforsuchthings.Theyhave the healers. But healersdon’twaste their timesavingtheReds,orevenworkingonthe front lines keepingsoldiers alive. Most of themremain in the cities,prolonging the lives ofancient Silvers, mendinglivers destroyed by alcohol

and the like.Sowe’re forcedto indulge inanundergroundmarket of technology andinventions to help betterourselves. Some are foolish,mostdon’twork—butabitofclicking metal saved mydad’slife.Icanalwayshearitticking away, a tiny pulse tokeepDadbreathing.

“I don’t want cake,” hegrumbles. I don’t miss hisglance toward his growing

belly.“Well, tell me what you

do want, Dad. A new watchor—”

“Mare, I do not considersomething you stole offsomeone’swristtobenew.”

Before another war canbrew in the Barrow house,Mom pulls the stew off thestove.“Dinnerisserved.”Shebrings it to the table,and thefumeswashoverme.

“It smells great, Mom,”Gisalies.Dadisnotsotactfulandgrimacesatthemeal.

Notwanting to be shownup, I force down some stew.It’snotasbadasusual,tomypleasant surprise. “You usedthatpepperIbroughtyou?”

Instead of nodding andsmiling and thanking me fornoticing, she flushes anddoesn’t answer. She knows Istoleit,justlikeallmygifts.

Gisa rolls her eyes overher soup, sensing where thisisgoing.

You’d think by now I’dbe used to it, but theirdisapprovalwearsonme.

Sighing,Mom lowersherface into her hands. “Mare,youknowIappreciate—Ijustwish—”

I finish for her. “That IwaslikeGisa?”

Mom shakes her head.

Another lie. “No, of coursenot.That’snotwhatImeant.”

“Right.”I’msuretheycansense my bitterness on theothersideofthevillage.Itrymy best to keep my voicefrom breaking. “It’s the onlyway I can help out before—beforeIgoaway.”

Mentioning the war is aquick way to silence myhouse. EvenDad’swheezingstops. Mom turns her head,

her cheeks flushing red withanger.Underthetable,Gisa’shandclosesaroundmine.

“I know you’re doingeverything you can, for theright reasons,” Momwhispers.Ittakesalotforhertosaythis,butitcomfortsmeallthesame.

Ikeepmymouthshutandforceanod.

Then Gisa jumps in herseat,likeshe’sbeenshocked.

“Oh, I almost forgot. Istopped at the post on theway back from Summerton.There was a letter fromShade.”

It’s like setting off abomb. Mom and Dadscramble, reaching for thedirty envelopeGisa pulls outof her jacket. I let thempassit over, examining the paper.Neither can read, so theygleanwhatevertheycanfrom

thepaperitself.Dad sniffs the letter,

trying to place the scent.“Pine. Not smoke. That’sgood. He’s away from theChoke.”

We all breathe a sigh ofrelief at that. The Choke isthe bombed-out strip of landconnecting Norta to theLakelands,wheremostofthewar is fought.Soldiers spendthe majority of their time

there, ducking in trenchesdoomedtoexplodeormakingdaring pushes that end in amassacre. The rest of theborderismainlylake, thoughin the far north it becomestundra toocoldandbarren tofightover.DadwasinjuredattheChokeyears ago,whenabomb dropped on his unit.Now the Choke is sodestroyed by decades ofbattle, the smoke of

explosions is a constant fogand nothing can grow there.It’s dead and gray, like thefutureofthewar.

He finally passes theletteroverformetoread,andI open it with greatanticipation, both eager andafraid to seewhat Shade hastosay.

Dear family, I amalive.Obviously.

ThatgetsachuckleoutofDadandme,andevenasmilefrom Gisa. Mom is not asamused, even though Shadestartseveryletterlikethis.

We’vebeen calledaway from the front,as Dad theBloodhound hasprobablyguessed. It’snice, getting back tothe main camps. It’s

Red as the dawn uphere, you barely evenseetheSilverofficers.And without theChokesmoke,youcanactually see the sunrise stronger everyday.ButIwon’tbeinfor long. Commandplanstorepurposetheunit for lake combat,and we’ve beenassignedtooneof the

newwarships.Imetamedic detached fromherunitwho said sheknew Tramy and thathe’sfine.Tookabitofshrapnel retreatingfrom the Choke, buthe recovered nicely.No infection, nopermanentdamage.

Momsighsaloud,shakingher head. “No permanent

damage,”shescoffs.

StillnothingaboutBree but I’m notworried.He’sthebestofus,andhe’scomingup on his five-yearleave. He’ll be homesoon, Mom, so stopyour worrying.Nothingelsetoreport,at least that I canwriteinaletter.Gisa,

don’tbetoomuchofashow-off even thoughyou deserve to be.Mare,don’tbesuchabrat all the time, andstop beating up thatWarrenboy.Dad,I’mproudof you.Always.Loveallofyou.

Your favorite sonandbrother,Shade.

Like always, Shade’s

words pierce through us. IcanalmosthearhisvoiceifItry hard enough. Then thelightsaboveussuddenlystarttowhine.

“Did no one put in theration papers I gotyesterday?” I ask before thelights flickeroff,plungingusinto darkness. As my eyesadjust, I can just see Momshakingherhead.

Gisagroans.“Canwenot

do this again?” Her chairscrapesasshestandsup.“I’mgoingtobed.Trynottoyell.”

Butwedon’t yell. Seemsto be the way of my world—tootiredtofight.MomandDad retreat to theirbedroom,leavingmealoneatthetable.Normally I’d slip out, but Ican’tfindthewilltodomuchmorethangotosleep.

I climb up yet anotherladdertotheloft,whereGisa

is already snoring. She cansleep like no other, droppingoffinaminuteorso,whileitcansometimestakemehours.Isettleintomycot,contenttosimply lie there and holdShade’sletter.LikeDadsaid,itsmellsstronglyofpine.

The river sounds nicetonight, tripping over stonesin the bank as it lulls me tosleep. Even the old fridge, arustybattery-runmachinethat

usually whines so hard ithurts my head, doesn’ttroublemetonight.Butthenabirdcallinterruptsmydescentintosleep.Kilorn.

No.Goaway.Another call, louder this

time.Gisastirsalittle,rollingoverintoherpillow.

Grumbling to myself,hatingKilorn,Irolloutofmycotandslidedowntheladder.Anyone else would have

trippedovertheclutter in themain room, but I have greatfooting thanks to years ofrunning from officers. I’mdown the stilt ladder in asecond,landingankle-deepinthe mud. Kilorn is waiting,appearingoutoftheshadowsbeneaththehouse.

“I hope you like blackeyes because I have noproblem giving you one forthis—”

Thesightofhisfacestopsmeshort.

He’s been crying. Kilorndoesnotcry.Hisknucklesarebleedingtoo,andIbetthere’sa wall hurting just as hardsomewherenearby.Inspiteofmyself, in spite of the latehour, I can’t help but feelconcerned, even scared forhim.

“What is it? What’swrong?” Without thinking, I

takehishandinmine,feelingthebloodbeneathmyfingers.“Whathappened?”

He takes a moment torespond,workinghimselfup.NowI’mterrified.

“My master—he fell. Hedied. I’m not an apprenticeanymore.”

Itrytoholdinagasp,butitechoesanyway,tauntingus.Even thoughhedoesn’thaveto, even though I knowwhat

he’s trying to say, hecontinues.

“I hadn’t even finishedtrainingandnow—”He tripsover his words. “I’meighteen.Theotherfishermenhave apprentices. I’m notworking.Ican’tgetwork.”

Thenextwordsarelikeaknife in my heart. Kilorndraws a ragged breath, andsomehow I wish I wouldn’thavetohearhim.

“They’re going to sendmetothewar.”

THREE

It’s been going on for thebetterpartofthelasthundredyears. I don’t think it shouldeven be called a waranymore, but there isn’t aword for this higher form ofdestruction. In school theytold us it started over land.The Lakelands are flat andfertile, bordered by immense

lakesfulloffish.Notliketherocky,forestedhillsofNorta,where the farmlands canbarely feed us. Even theSilvers felt the strain, so theking declared war, plungingus intoaconflictneithersidecouldreallywin.

The Lakelander king,another Silver, responded inkind,with the full support ofhis own nobility. Theywanted our rivers, to get

access to a sea that wasn’tfrozen half the year, and thewatermillsdottingourrivers.Themills arewhatmakeourcountry strong, providingenough electricity so thateventheRedscanhavesome.I’ve heard rumors of citiesfarthersouth,nearthecapital,Archeon, where greatlyskilled Reds build machinesbeyond my comprehension.For transport on land, water,

and sky, or weapons to raindestruction wherever theSilvers might need. OurteacherproudlytoldusNortawas the light of theworld, anation made great by ourtechnology and power. Alltherest,liketheLakelandsorPiedmonttothesouth,liveindarkness. We were lucky tobe born here. Lucky. Theword makes me want toscream.

But despite ourelectricity, the Lakelanderfood, our weapons, theirnumbers, neither side hasmuch advantage over theother. Both have Silverofficers and Red soldiers,fighting with abilities andguns and the shield of athousand Red bodies. A warthatwassupposedtoendlessthanacenturyagostilldragson. I always found it funny

thatwefoughtover foodandwater. Even the high-and-mightySilversneedtoeat.

But it isn’t funny now,not when Kilorn is going tobethenextpersonIsaygood-bye to. Iwonder ifhe’llgiveme an earring so I canremember him when thepolished legionnaire takeshimaway.

“One week, Mare. Oneweek and I’m gone.” His

voice cracks, though hecoughstotrytocoveritup.“Ican’t do this. They—theywon’ttakeme.”

But I can see the fightgoingoutofhiseyes.

“Theremustbesomethingwecando,”Iblurtout.

“There’s nothing anyonecan do. No one has escapedconscriptionandlived.”

Hedoesn’tneedtotellmethat. Every year, someone

tries to run. And every year,they’re dragged back to thetownsquareandhanged.

“No.We’llfindaway.”Even now, he finds the

strength to smirk at me.“We?”

The heat in my cheekssurges faster than any flame.“I’mdoomedforconscriptionsame as you, but they’re notgoingtogetmeeither.Sowerun.”

The army has alwaysbeen my fate, mypunishment, Iknowthat.Butnothis.It’salreadytakentoomuchfromhim.

“There’snowherewecango,” he sputters, but at leasthe’sarguing.Atleasthe’snotgiving up. “We’d neversurvive the north in winter,theeastisthesea,thewestismore war, the south isradiated to all hell—and

everywhere in between iscrawling with Silvers andSecurity.”

Thewordspouroutofmelikeariver.“Soisthevillage.Crawling with Silvers andSecurity. And we manage tosteal right under their nosesand escape with our heads.”My mind races, trying myhardest to find something,anything, that might be ofuse.Andthenithitsmelikea

boltoflightning.“Theblack-markettrade,theonewehelpkeep running, smuggleseverything from grain tolightbulbs.Who’stosaytheycan’tsmugglepeople?”

Hismouthopens,abouttospoutathousandreasonswhythiswon’twork.But then hesmiles.Andnods.

I don’t like gettinginvolved with other people’sbusiness. I don’t have time

for it. And yet here I am,listening to myself say fourdoomingwords.

“Leave everything tome.”

Thethingswecan’tselltotheusualshopownerswehavetotake to Will Whistle. He’sold, too feeble to work thelumberyards, so he sweepsthe streets by day. At night,hesellseverythingyoucould

wantoutofhismoldywagon,fromheavilyrestrictedcoffeeto exotics from Archeon. Iwas nine with a fistful ofstolen buttons when I tookmy chances with Will. Hepaidmethreecopperpenniesforthem,noquestionsasked.Now I’m his best customerand probably the reason hemanagestostayafloatinsuchasmallplace.OnagooddayI might even call him a

friend. It was years before IdiscoveredWillwaspartofamuch larger operation. Somecallittheunderground,othersthe black market, but all Icare about is what they cando.Theyhavefences,peoplelike Will, everywhere. EveninArcheon, as impossible asthat sounds. They transportillegal goods all over thecountry.AndnowI’mbettingthat they might make an

exception and transport apersoninstead.

“Absolutelynot.”In eight years, Will has

neversaidnotome.Nowthewrinkled old fool ispracticallyslammingshut thedoors of his wagon in myface.I’mhappyKilornstayedbehind,sohedoesn’thavetoseemefailhim.

“Will,please.Iknowyoucandoit—”

He shakes head, whitebeard waggling. “Even if Icould, Iamatradesman.ThepeopleIworkwitharen’t thetype to spend their time andeffortshuttlinganotherrunnerfrom place to place. It’s notourbusiness.”

I can feel my only hope,Kilorn’s only hope, slippingrightthroughmyfingers.

Will must see thedesperation in my eyes

because he softens, leaningagainst the wagon door. Heheaves a sigh and glancesbackward, into the darknessof the wagon. After amoment, he turns backaround and gestures,beckoningmeinside.Ifollowgladly.

“Thank you, Will,” Ibabble. “You don’t knowwhatthismeanstome—”

“Sit down and be quiet,

girl,”ahighvoicesays.Outoftheshadowsofthe

wagon, hardly visible in thedimlightofWill’ssinglebluecandle, awoman rises to herfeet.Girl, I should say, sinceshe barely looks older thanme. But she’s much taller,withtheairofanoldwarrior.The gun at her hip, tuckedinto a red sash belt stampedwith suns, is certainly notauthorized. She’s too blond

andfair tobefromtheStilts,andjudgingbythelightsweatonherface,she’snotusedtotheheatorhumidity.Sheisaforeigner, an outlander, andan outlaw at that. Just thepersonIwanttosee.

She waves me to thebench cut into the wagonwall,andshesitsdownagainonly when I have. Willfollowscloselybehindandallbut collapses into a worn

chair, his eyes flittingbetweenthegirlandme.

“Mare Barrow, meetFarley,”hemurmurs,andshetightensherjaw.

Her gaze lands on myface. “You wish to transportcargo.”

“Myselfandaboy—”Butsheholdsupalarge,callusedhand,cuttingmeoff.

“Cargo,” she says again,eyes full of meaning. My

heart leaps in my chest; thisFarley girl might be of thehelping kind. “And what isthedestination?”

I rackmybrain, trying tothinkofsomewheresafe.Theold classroom map swimsbeforemyeyes,outlining thecoast and the rivers,markingcities and villages andeverything in between. FromHarbor Bay west to theLakelands, the northern

tundra to the radiated wastesof the Ruins and the Wash,it’salldangerouslandforus.

“Somewhere safe fromtheSilvers.That’sall.”

Farley blinks at me, herexpression unchanging.“Safetyhasaprice,girl.”

“Everything has a price,girl,” I fire back, matchinghertone.“Nooneknowsthatmorethanme.”

A long beat of silence

stretchesthroughthewagon.Ican feel the night wastingaway, taking preciousminutes from Kilorn. Farleymust sense my unease andimpatience but makes nohurry to speak. After whatseems like an eternity, hermouthfinallyopens.

“The Scarlet Guardaccepts,MareBarrow.”

It takes all the restraint Ihave to keep from jumping

out ofmy seatwith joy. Butsomething tugs at me,keepingasmilefromcrossingmyface.

“Payment is expected infull, to the equivalent of onethousand crowns,” Farleycontinues.

That almost knocks theairfrommylungs.EvenWilllooks surprised, his fluffywhite eyebrows disappearinginto his hairline. “A

thousand?” I manage tochoke out. No one deals inthatamountofmoney,not intheStilts.Thatcouldfeedmyfamily for a year. Manyyears.

ButFarleyisn’tfinished.Iget the sense that she enjoysthis. “This can be paid inpapernotes,tetrarchcoins,orthe bartering equivalent. Peritem,ofcourse.”

Two thousand crowns. A

fortune.Ourfreedomisworthafortune.

“Your cargo will bemoved the day aftertomorrow. You must paythen.”

Icanbarelybreathe.Lessthan two days to accumulatemore money than I havestoleninmyentirelife.Thereisnoway.

Shedoesn’tevengivemetimetoprotest.

“Do you accept theterms?”

“Ineedmoretime.”She shakes her head and

leans forward. I smellgunpowder on her. “Do youaccepttheterms?”

It is impossible. It isfoolish.Itisourbestchance.

“Iaccepttheterms.”

The next moments pass in ablurasItrudgehomethrough

the muddy shadows. Mymind is on fire, trying tofigure out a way to get myhandsonanythingworthevenclose to Farley’s price.There’s nothing in the Stilts,that’sforsure.

Kilorn is still waiting inthe darkness, looking like alittlelostboy.Isupposeheis.

“Bad news?” he says,tryingtokeephisvoiceeven,butittremblesanyway.

“Theundergroundcangetusoutofhere.”Forhissake,Ikeep myself calm as Iexplain. Two thousandcrowns might as well be theking’s throne, but I make itseemlikenothing.“Ifanyonecandoit,wecan.Wecan.”

“Mare.”Hisvoiceiscold,colder than winter, but thehollow look in his eyes isworse.“It’sover.Welost.”

“Butifwejust—”

He grabs my shoulders,holdingmeatanarm’slengthin his firm grip. It doesn’thurt but it shocksme all thesame. “Don’t do this to me,Mare. Don’t make believethere’s a way out of this.Don’tgivemehope.”

He’s right. It’s cruel togivehopewherenoneshouldbe. It only turns intodisappointment, resentment,rage—allthethingsthatmake

this lifemoredifficult than italreadyis.

“Just let me accept it.Maybe—maybe then I canactuallygetmyheadinorder,get myself trained properly,givemyselfafightingchanceoutthere.”

My hands find his wristsandIholdontight.“Youtalklikeyou’realreadydead.”

“MaybeIam.”“Mybrothers—”

“Your father made surethey knew what they weredoing long before they wentaway. And it helps thatthey’re all the size of ahouse.” He forces a smirk,trying to get me to laugh. Itdoesn’t work. “I’m a goodswimmer and sailor. They’llneedmeonthelakes.”

It’s only when he wrapshisarmsaroundme,huggingme,thatIrealizeI’mshaking.

“Kilorn—,”Imumbleintohischest. But the next wordswon’tcome.Itshouldbeme.But my time is fastapproaching. I canonlyhopeKilorn survives long enoughfor me to see him again, inthe barracks or in a trench.MaybethenI’llfindtherightwordstosay.MaybethenI’llunderstandhowIfeel.

“Thank you, Mare. Foreverything.” He pulls back,

letting go of me far tooquickly. “If you save up,you’ll have enough by thetime the legion comes foryou.”

Forhim,Inod.ButIhaveno plans of letting him fightanddiealone.

By the timeIsettledownintomycot,IknowIwillnotsleep tonight. There must besomethingIcando,andevenifittakesallnight,I’mgoing

tofigureitout.Gisa coughs in her sleep

and it’s a courteous, tinysound.Evenunconscious,shemanages to be ladylike. Nowonder she fits in so wellwith the Silvers. She’severythingtheylikeinaRed:quiet, content, andunassuming.It’sagoodthingshe’stheonewhohastodealwith them, helping thesuperhuman fools pick out

silk and fine fabrics forclothesthey’llwearjustonce.Shesaysyougetusedtoit,tothe amount of money theyspend on such trivial things.And at Grand Garden, themarketplace in Summerton,the money increases tenfold.Together with her mistress,Gisasewslace,silk,fur,evengemstones to createwearableart for the Silver elite whoseem to follow the royals

everywhere. The parade, shecalls them, an endlessmarchof preening peacocks, eachone more proud andridiculous than the next. AllSilver,allsilly,andallstatus-obsessed.

I hate them even morethan usual tonight. Thestockings they lose wouldprobably be enough to saveme,Kilorn,andhalftheStiltsfromconscription.

For the second timetonight,lightningstrikes.

“Gisa.Wakeup.”Idonotwhisper. The girl sleeps likethedead.“Gisa.”

Sheshiftsandgroansintoher pillow. “Sometimes Iwant to kill you,” shegrumbles.

“How sweet. Now wakeup!”

Her eyes are still closedwhen I pounce, landing on

her like a giant cat. Beforeshe can start yelling andwhining and get my motherinvolved, I clamp a hand onhermouth.“Justlistentome,that’s all. Don’t talk, justlisten.”

She huffs against myhandbutnodsallthesame.

“Kilorn—”Her skin flushes bright

red at the mention of him.She even giggles, something

she never does. But I don’thave time for her schoolgirlcrush,notnow.

“Stopthat,Gisa.”Itakeashakybreath.“Kilornisgoingtobeconscripted.”

And then her laughter isgone. Conscription isn’t ajoke,nottous.

“I’ve found a way to gethim out of here, to save himfromthewar,butIneedyourhelp todo it.” It hurts to say

it, but somehow the wordspass my lips. “I need you,Gisa.Willyouhelpme?”

She doesn’t hesitate toanswer, and I feel a greatswellofloveformysister.

“Yes.”

It’sagoodthingI’mshort,orelse Gisa’s extra uniformwouldneverfit.It’sthickanddark, not at all suited to thesummersun,withbuttonsand

zippers that seem to cook inthe heat. The pack on mybackshifts,almost takingmeoverwith theweightofclothandsewing instruments.Gisahas her own pack andconstrictinguniform,buttheydon’t seem to bother her atall. She’s used to hard workandahardlife.

We sail most of thedistance upriver, squashedbetween bushels ofwheat on

the barge of a benevolentfarmerGisa befriended yearsago. People trust her aroundhere,liketheycannevertrustme. The farmer lets us offwith a mile still to go, nearthewindingtrailofmerchantsheadingforSummerton.Nowweshufflewiththem,towardwhat Gisa calls the GardenDoor, though there are nogardens to be seen. It’sactually a gate made of

sparklingglass that blindsusbefore we even get a chancetostepinside.Therestofthewall looks to bemadeof thesame thing, but I can’tbelievetheSilverkingwouldbe stupid enough to hidebehindglasswalls.

“It isn’t glass,”Gisa tellsme.“Orat least,notentirely.TheSilversdiscoveredawayto heat diamond and mix itwith other materials. It’s

totallyimpregnable.Notevena bomb could get throughthat.”

Diamondwalls.“Thatseemsnecessary.”“Keep your head down.

Let me do the talking,” shewhispers.

I stay on her heels, myeyes on the road as it fadesfromcrackedblackasphalttopaved white stone. It’s sosmoothIalmostslip,butGisa

grabs my arm, keeping mesteady.Kilornwouldn’t havea problem walking on this,notwithhissealegs.ButthenKilorn wouldn’t be here atall. He’s already given up. Iwillnot.

As we get closer to thegates, I squint through theglare tosee to theotherside.Though Summerton onlyexists for the season,abandoned before the first

frostfall, it’s the biggest cityI’ve ever seen. There arebustling streets, shops,cantina bars, houses, andcourtyards, all of thempointed towarda shimmeringmonstrosity of diamondglassandmarble.AndnowIknowwhere it got its name. TheHall of theSun shines like astar, reaching a hundred feetintotheairinatwistingmassofspiresandbridges.Partsof

itdarkenseeminglyatwill,togive the occupants privacy.Can’t have the peasantslooking at the king and hiscourt. It’s breathtaking,intimidating, magnificent—and this is just the summerhouse.

“Names,” a gruff voicebarks,andGisastopsshort.

“GisaBarrow.Thisismysister, Mare Barrow. She’shelpingmebringsomewares

in for my mistress.” Shedoesn’t flinch, keeping hervoiceeven,almostbored.TheSecurity officer nods at meandIshiftmypack,makingashow of it. Gisa hands overour identification cards, bothof them torn, dirty thingsready to fall apart, but theysuffice.

The man examining usmustknowmysisterbecausehe barely glances at her ID.

Mine he scrutinizes, lookingbetween my face and mypicture for a good minute. Iwonder if he’s awhisper tooand can readmymind. Thatwouldputanendtothislittleexcursion very quickly andprobably earn me a cablenoosearoundmyneck.

“Wrists,” he sighs,alreadyboredwithus.

For a moment, I’mpuzzled, but Gisa sticks out

her right hand without athought. I follow thegesture,pointing my arm at theofficer.Heslapsapairofredbandsaroundourwrists.Thecircles shrink until they’retight as shackles—there’s noremoving these thingsonourown.

“Movealong,”theofficersays, gesturing with a lazywaveofthehand.Twoyounggirls are not a threat in his

eyes.Gisanods in thanksbut I

don’t. This man doesn’tdeserve an ounce ofappreciation from me. Thegates yawn open around usand we march forward. Myheartbeat pounds inmy ears,drowning out the sounds ofGrand Garden as we enter adifferentworld.

It’s a market like I’venever seen, dotted with

flowers and trees andfountains. The Reds are fewand fast, runningerrandsandselling their own wares, allmarked by their red bands.Though the Silvers wear noband, they’re easy to spot.They drip with gems andpreciousmetals, a fortuneonevery one of them. One slipofahookandIcangohomewith everything I’ll everneed. All are tall and

beautiful and cold, movingwithaslowgracenoRedcanclaim.We simplydon’t havethetimetomovethatway.

Gisa guides me past abakery with cakes dusted ingold, a grocer displayingbrightly colored fruits I’veneverseenbefore,andevenamenagerie full of wildanimals beyond mycomprehension. A little girl,Silverjudgingbyherclothes,

feeds tiny bits of apple to aspotted, horselike creaturewithanimpossiblylongneck.A few streetsover, a jewelrystore sparkles in every colorof the rainbow. I make noteof it but keeping my headstraight here is difficult. Theair seems to pulse, vibrantwithlife.

Just when I think therecould be nothing morefantastic than this place, I

lookcloserat theSilversandremember exactly who theyare. The little girl is a telky,levitating the apple ten feetinto the air to feed the long-necked beast. A florist runshis hands through a pot ofwhite flowers and theyexplode into growth, curlingaround his elbows. He’s agreeny, a manipulator ofplantsandtheearth.Apairofnymphs sits by the fountain,

lazily entertaining childrenwith floating orbs of water.One of them has orange hairand hateful eyes, even whilekids mill around him. Alloverthesquare,everytypeofSilver goes about theirextraordinarylives.Therearesomany,eachonegrandandwonderful and powerful andso far removed from theworldIknow.

“This is how the other

half lives,” Gisa murmurs,sensingmyawe.“It’senoughtomakeyousick.”

Guilt ripples throughme.I’ve always been jealous ofGisa, her talent and all theprivileges it affords her, butI’veneverthoughtofthecost.She didn’t spend much timeinschoolandhasfewfriendsin the Stilts. If Gisa werenormal, she would havemany. She would smile.

Instead, thefourteen-year-oldgirl soldiers through withneedleandthread,puttingthefuture of her family on herback, living neck-deep in aworldshehates.

“Thank you, Gee,” Iwhisper into her ear. Sheknows I don’t just mean fortoday.

“Salla’s shop is there,with the blue awning.” Shepointsdownasidestreet,toa

tiny store sandwichedbetween a pair of cafés. “I’llbeinside,ifyouneedme.”

“I won’t,” I answerquickly. “Even if things gowrong, I won’t get youinvolved.”

“Good.” Then she grabsmy hand, squeezing tight fora second. “Be careful. It’scrowded today, more thanusual.”

“More places to hide,” I

tellherwithasmirk.But her voice is grave.

“Moreofficerstoo.”We continue walking,

every step bringing us closerto the exact moment she’llleavemealoneinthisstrangeplace.A thrumofpanicgoesthrough me as Gisa gentlylifts the pack from myshoulders.We’vereachedhershop.

Tocalmmyself, I ramble

under my breath. “Speak tono one, don’t make eyecontact.Keepmoving.Ileavethe way I came, through theGarden Door. The officerremovesmybandand Ikeepwalking.” She nods as Ispeak, her eyes wide, waryand perhaps even hopeful.“It’stenmilestohome.”

“Tenmiles tohome,”sheechoes.

Wishing forall theworld

I could go with her, I watchGisa disappear beneath theblueawning.She’sgottenmethisfar.Nowit’smyturn.

FOUR

I’ve done this a thousandtimes before, watching thecrowd like a wolf does aflock of sheep. Looking forthe weak, the slow, thefoolish.Onlynow,Iamverymuch the prey. I mightchoose a swift who’ll catchme in half a heartbeat, orworse, a whisper who could

probably sense me coming amile away. Even the littletelky girl can best me ifthings go south. So I willhave to be faster than ever,smarter than ever, and worstof all, luckier than ever. It’smaddening. Fortunately, noone pays attention to anotherRed servant, another insectwandering past the feet ofgods.

Iheadbacktothesquare,

arms hanging limp but readyatmy sides.Normally this ismy dance, walking throughthemostcongestedpartsofacrowd,lettingmyhandscatchpurses and pockets likespiderwebscatchingflies.I’mnot stupid enough to try thathere. Instead, I follow thecrowd around the square.Now I’m not blinded by myfantastic surroundings butlooking beyond them, to the

cracks in the stone and theblack-uniformed Securityofficersineveryshadow.Theimpossible Silver worldcomes into sharper focus.Silvers barely look at eachother, and they never smile.The telky girl looks boredfeedingherstrangebeast,andmerchantsdon’tevenhaggle.Only the Reds look alive,darting around the slow-movingmenandwomenofa

better life. Despite the heat,the sun, the bright banners, Ihave never seen a place socold.

What concern me mostare the black video camerashidden in the canopy oralleyways. There are only afew at home, at the Securityoutpost or in the arena, butthey’re all over themarket. Ican just hear them hummingin firm reminder: someone

elseiswatchinghere.The tide of the crowd

takes me down the mainavenue, past taverns andcafés. Silvers sit at an open-air bar, watching the crowdpass as they enjoy theirmorning drinks. Some watchvideoscreenssetintowallsorhangingfromarchways.Eachone plays somethingdifferent, ranging from oldarena matches to news to

brightly colored programs Idon’tunderstand,allblendingtogetherinmyhead.Thehighwhine of the screens, thedistantsoundofstatic,buzzesin my ears. How they canstandit,Idon’tknow.ButtheSilversdon’tevenblinkatthevideos, almost ignoring thementirely.

The Hall itself casts aglimmering shadowoverme,and I find myself staring in

stupid awe again. But then adroningnoisesnapsmeoutofit. At first it sounds like thearena tone, the one used tostart a Feat, but this one isdifferent. Low and heaviersomehow.Withoutathought,Iturntothenoise.

In the bar next tome, allthe video screens flicker tothe same broadcast. Not aroyal address but a newsreport. Even the Silvers stop

to watch in rapt silence.When the drone ends, thereport begins.A fluffy blondwoman, Silver no doubt,appears on the screen. Shereads from a piece of paperandlooksfrightened.

“Silvers of Norta, weapologizefortheinterruption.Thirteen minutes ago therewas a terrorist attack in thecapital.”

The Silvers around me

gasp, bursting into fearfulmurmurs.

I can only blink indisbelief.Terroristattack?OntheSilvers?

Isthatevenpossible?“This was an organized

bombing of governmentbuildings in West Archeon.According to reports, theRoyal Court, the TreasuryHall, and Whitefire Palacehave been damaged, but the

court and the treasury werenot in session thismorning.”The image changes from thewoman to footage of aburning building. Securityofficers evacuate the peopleinside while nymphs blastwater onto the flames.Healers, marked by a black-and-red cross on their arms,run to and fro among them.“The royal familywasnot inresidence at Whitefire, and

there are no reportedcasualties at this time. KingTiberias is expected toaddress the nationwithin thehour.”

A Silver next to meclenches his fist and poundson the bar, sending spidercracks through the solid rocktop. A strongarm. “It’s theLakelanders! They’re losingup north so they’re comingdown south to scare us!” A

fewjeerwithhim,cursingtheLakelands.

“We should wipe themout,pushallthewaythroughto Prairie!” another Silverechoes. Many cheer inagreement. It takes all mystrength not to snap at thesecowards who will never seethe front lines or send theirchildrentofight.TheirSilverwar is being paid for in Redblood.

As more and morefootage rolls, showing themarble facade of thecourthouse explode into dustor a diamondglass wallwithstanding a fireball, partof me feels happy. TheSilvers are not invincible.They have enemies, enemieswho can hurt them, and foronce, they aren’t hidingbehindaRedshield.

The newscaster returns,

paler than ever. Someonewhisperstoheroffscreenandshe shuffles through hernotes, her hands shaking. “Itseems that an organizationhas taken responsibility forthe Archeon bombing,” shesays, stumbling a bit. Theshouting men quiet quickly,eager to hear the words on-screen. “A terrorist groupcallingthemselvestheScarletGuard released this video

momentsago.”“The Scarlet Guard?”

“Who the hell—?” “Somekind of trick—?” and otherconfused questions risearound the bar. No one hasheard of the Scarlet Guardbefore.

ButIhave.That’swhat Farley called

herself. Her and Will. Butthey are smugglers, both ofthem, not terrorists or

bombersorwhateverelsethebroadcast might say. It’s acoincidence,itcan’tbethem.

On-screen,I’mgreetedbya terrible sight. A womanstands in front of a shakycamera, a scarlet bandannatied around her face so onlyhergoldenhairandkeenblueeyes shine out. She holds agun in one hand, a tatteredred flag in another. And onher chest, there’s a bronze

badge in the shapeof a torn-apartsun.

“WearetheScarletGuardandwestandforthefreedomandequalityofallpeople—,”the woman says. I recognizehervoice.

Farley.“—starting with the

Reds.”I don’t need to be a

geniustoknowthatabarfullofangry,violentSilversisthe

lastplaceaRedgirlwants tobe.But I can’tmove. I can’ttear my eyes away fromFarley’sface.

“You believe you are themastersoftheworld,butyourreign as kings and gods is atan end. Until you recognizeus as human, as equal, thefightwillbeatyourdoor.Noton a battlefield but in yourcities.Inyourstreets.Inyourhomes.Youdon’tseeus,and

so we are everywhere.” Hervoice hums with authorityand poise. “Andwewill riseup,Redasthedawn.”

Redasthedawn.The footage ends, cutting

back to the slack-jawedblonde. Roars drown out therest of the broadcast asSilvers around the bar findtheir voices. They screamabout Farley, calling her aterrorist, a murderer, a Red

devil. Before their eyes canfallonme,Ibackoutintothestreet.

But all down the avenue,from the square to the Hall,Silvers boil out from everybar and café. I try to rip offtheredbandaroundmywrist,but the stupid thing holdsfirm. Other Reds disappearinto alleys and doorways,trying to flee, and I’m smartenoughtofollow.Bythetime

I find an alleyway, thescreamingstarts.

Against every instinct, Ilookovermyshoulder toseeaRedman being held up bythe neck. He pleads with hisSilver assailant, begging.“Please,Idon’tknow,Idon’tknow who the hell thosepeopleare!”

“What is the ScarletGuard?” the Silver yells intohis face. I recognize him as

one of the nymphs who wasplayingwithchildrennothalfanhourago.“Whoarethey?”

Before the Red cananswer, a spray of waterpounds against him, strongerthan falling hammers. Thenymph raises a hand and thewater risesup, splashinghimagain. Silvers surround thescene, jeering with glee,cheering him on. The Redsputters and gasps, trying to

catch his breath. Heproclaims his innocencewithevery spare second, but thewater keeps coming. Thenymph,wide-eyedwith hate,shows no signs of stopping.He pulls water from thefountains, from every glass,raining it down again andagain.

The nymph is drowninghim.

The blue awning is mybeacon, guiding me throughthe panicked streets as IdodgeRedsandSilversalike.Usually chaos is my bestfriend,makingmywork as athiefthatmucheasier.Noonenotices a missing coin pursewhen they’re running from amob. But Kilorn and twothousand crowns are nolongermy top priority. I canonly think about getting to

Gisa and getting out of thecity that will certainlybecomeaprison.Iftheyclosethegates . . . Idon’twant tothink about being stuckhere,trapped behind glass withfreedomjustoutofreach.

Officers run back andforthinthestreet—theydon’tknow what to do or who toprotect.AfewroundupReds,forcing them to their knees.They shiver and beg,

repeating over and over thatthey don’t know anything.I’m willing to bet I’m theonly one in the entire citywho had even heard of theScarletGuardbeforetoday.

That sends a new stab offear through me. If I’mcaptured, if I tell them whatlittle Iknow—whatwill theydo tomy family?ToKilorn?TotheStilts?

Theycannotcatchme.

Using the stalls tohide, IrunasfastasIcan.Themainstreet is a war zone, but Ikeepmyeyesforward,ontheblue awning beyond thesquare. I pass the jewelrystoreandslow.JustonepiececouldsaveKilorn.But in theheartbeat it takesme to stop,a hail of glass scrapes myface.Inthestreet,atelkyhashiseyesonmeandtakesaimagain. I don’t give him the

chance and take off, slidingunder curtains and stalls andoutstretched arms until I getback to the square. Before Iknowit,watersloshesaroundmyfeetasIsprintthroughthefountain.

A frothing blue waveknocksmesideways, intothechurningwater.It’snotdeep,nomore than two feet to thebottom, but the water feelslikelead.Ican’tmove,Ican’t

swim, I can’t breathe. I canbarely think. My mind canonly scream nymph, and Iremember the poor Redmanon the avenue, drowning onhis own two feet. My headsmacks the stone bottom andIseestars,sparks,beforemyvision clears. Every inch ofmyskinfeelselectrified.Thewater shifts around me,normalagain,andIbreakthesurface of the fountain. Air

screams back into my lungs,searing my throat and nose,butIdon’tcare.I’malive.

Small, strong hands grabme by the collar, trying topull me from the fountain.Gisa. My feet push off thebottomandwe tumble to thegroundtogether.

“We have to go,” I yell,scramblingtomyfeet.

Gisa is already runningahead of me, toward the

Garden Door. “Veryperceptive of you!” shescreamsoverhershoulder.

Ican’thelpbutlookbackat the square as I followher.The Silver mob pours in,searching through the stallswith the voracity of wolves.The few Reds left behindcowerontheground,beggingfor mercy. And in thefountain I just escaped from,amanwithorangehairfloats

facedown.My body trembles, every

nerve on fire as we pushtoward the gate. Gisa holdsmy hand, pulling us boththroughthecrowd.

“Ten miles to home,”Gisa murmurs. “Did you getwhatyouneeded?”

Theweight ofmy shamecomes crashing down as Ishakemyhead.Therewasnotime.Icouldbarelygetdown

the avenue before the reportcame through. There wasnothingIcoulddo.

Gisa’s face falls, foldinginto a tiny frown. “We’llfigure out something,” shesays, her voice just asdesperateasIfeel.

Butthegateloomsahead,growing closer with everypassing second. It fills mewith dread. Once I passthrough, once I leave,Kilorn

willreallybegone.And I think that’s why

shedoesit.Before I can stop her,

grab her, or pull her away,Gisa’sclever littlehandslipsinto someone’s bag.Not justany someone though, but anescapingSilver.ASilverwithlead eyes, a hard nose, andsquare-set shoulders thatscream“don’tmesswithme.”Gisamightbeanartistwitha

needle and thread, but she’snopickpocket.Ittakesallofasecond for him to realizewhat’s happening. And thensomeone grabs Gisa off theground.

It’sthesameSilver.Therearetwoofthem.Twins?

“Not a wise time to startpicking Silver pockets,” thetwinssayinunison.Andthenthere are threeof them, four,five, six, surrounding us in

the crowd.Multiplying.He’sacloner.

Theymakemyheadspin.“She didn’t mean any harm,she’sjustastupidkid—”

“I’m just a stupid kid!”Gisa yells, trying to kick theoneholdingher.

They chuckle together inahorrifyingsound.

I lunge at Gisa, trying topryheraway,butoneofthempushes me back to the

ground. The hard stone roadknockstheairfrommylungs,and I gasp for breath,watching helplessly asanother twin puts a foot onmy stomach, holding medown.

“Please—,” I choke out,but no one’s listening to meanymore.Thewhining inmyhead intensifies as everycamera spins to look at us. Ifeel electrified again, this

timebyfearformysister.A Security officer, the

one who let us inside earlierthismorning,stridesover,hisgun in hand. “What’s allthis?” he growls, lookingaround at the identicalSilvers.

One by one, they meldback together, until only tworemain: theoneholdingGisaandtheonepinningmetotheground.

“She’s a thief,” one says,shaking my sister. To hercredit,shedoesn’tscream.

The officer recognizesher, his hard face twitchinginto a frown for a splitsecond. “You know the law,girl.”

Gisa lowers her head. “Iknowthelaw.”

I struggle as much as Ican, trying to stop what’scoming. Glass shatters as a

nearby screen cracks andflashes,brokenby the riot. Itdoes nothing to stop theofficer ashegrabsmy sister,pushinghertotheground.

My own voice screamsout, joining the din of thechaos.“Itwasme!Itwasmyidea! Hurt me!” But theydon’tlisten.Theydon’tcare.

I can only watch as theofficer laysmy sister next tome.Her eyes are onmine as

he brings the butt of his gundown,shatteringthebonesinhersewinghand.

FIVE

Kilornwill findmeanywhereI try to hide, so I keepmoving. I sprint like I canoutrun what I’ve done toGisa, how I’ve failedKilorn,how I’ve destroyedeverything. But even I can’toutrun the look in mymother’seyeswhenIbroughtGisa to the door. I saw the

hopeless shadow cross herface, and I ran before myfather wheeled himself intoview. I couldn’t face themboth.I’macoward.

So I run until I can’tthink, until every badmemory fades away, until Ican only feel the burning inmy muscles. I even tellmyselfthetearsonmycheeksarerain.

When I finally slow to

catchmy breath, I’m outsidethevillage,afewmilesdownthat terrible northern road.Lightsfilter throughthetreesaroundthebend,illuminatingan inn, one of the many onthe old roads. It’s crowdedlike it is every summer, fullof servants and seasonalworkerswhofollowtheroyalcourt. They don’t live in theStilts, they don’t know myface,sothey’reeasypreyfor

pickpocketing. I do it everysummer,butKilornisalwayswithme,smilingintoadrinkas he watches me work. Idon’t suppose I’ll see hissmileformuchlonger.

Abellowoflaughterrisesas a few men stumble fromthe inn, drunk and happy.Their coin purses jingle,heavy with the day’s pay.Silver money, for serving,smiling, and bowing to

monstersdressedaslords.I caused so much harm

today, so much hurt to theones I love most. I shouldturn around and go home, toface everyone with at leastsome courage. But instead Isettle against the shadows ofthe inn, content to remain indarkness.

IguesscausingpainisallI’mgoodfor.

Itdoesn’ttakelongtofill

the pockets of my coat. Thedrunks filter out every fewminutes and I press againstthem, pasting on a smile tohide my hands. No onenotices, no one even cares,when I fade away again. I’ma shadow, and no oneremembersshadows.

MidnightcomesandgoesandstillIstand,waiting.Themoon overhead is a brightreminderof the time,ofhow

longI’vebeengone.Onelastpocket, I tell myself. Onemore and I’ll go. I’ve beensayingitforthepasthour.

I don’t think when thenext patron comes out. Hiseyes are on the sky, and hedoesn’t notice me. It’s tooeasytoreachout,tooeasytohook a finger around thestrings of his coin purse. Ishould know better by nowthatnothinghere is easy,but

the riot and Gisa’s holloweyes have made me foolishwithgrief.

His hand closes aroundmy wrist, his grip firm andstrangely hot as he pulls meforwardoutoftheshadows.Itry toresist, toslipawayandrun, but he’s too strong.Whenhespins,thefireinhiseyes puts a fear in me, thesamefearIfelt thismorning.But I welcome any

punishment he mightsummon.Ideserveitall.

“Thief,”hesays,astrangesurpriseinhisvoice.

Iblinkathim,fightingtheurge to laugh. I don’t evenhave the strength to protest.“Obviously.”

He stares at me,scrutinizing everything frommyfacetomywornboots.Itmakes me squirm. After along moment, he heaves a

breath and lets me go.Stunned, I can only stare athim.Whenasilvercoinspinsthroughtheair,Ibarelyhavethe wits to catch it. Atetrarch. A silver tetrarchworth one whole crown. Farmore than any of the stolenpenniesinmypockets.

“That should be morethan enough to tide youover,” he says before I canrespond. In the light of the

inn, his eyes glint red-gold,the color of warmth. Myyears spent sizing people updonotfailme,evennow.Hisblack hair is too glossy, hisskin too pale to be anythingbut a servant. But hisphysique seems more like awoodcutter’s, with broadshoulders and strong legs.He’syoung too, a littleolderthanme,thoughnotnearlyasassured of himself as any

nineteen- or twenty-year-oldshouldbe.

Ishouldkisshisbootsforlettingme goand giving mesuch a gift, but my curiositygets the better of me. Italwaysdoes.

“Why?”Theword comesout hard and harsh. After aday like today, how can I beanythingelse?

The question takes himaback and he shrugs. “You

needitmorethanIdo.”I want to throw the coin

backinhisface, to tellhimIcan take care of myself, butpartofmeknowsbetter.Hastoday taught you nothing?“Thank you,” I force outthroughgrittedteeth.

Somehow, he laughs atmy reluctant gratitude.“Don’t hurt yourself.” Thenheshifts,takingastepcloser.He is the strangest person

I’ve ever met. “You live inthevillage,don’tyou?”

“Yes,” I reply, gesturingto myself. With my fadedhair, dirty clothes, anddefeated eyes, what elsecouldIbe?Hestandsinstarkcontrast, his shirt fine andclean, and his shoes are soft,reflective leather. He shiftsundermy gaze, playing withhis collar. I make himnervous.

Hepalesinthemoonlight,his eyes darting. “Do youenjoyit?”heasks,deflecting.“Livingthere?”

His question almostmakes me laugh, but hedoesn’t look amused. “Doesanyone?” I finally respond,wonderingwhatonearthhe’splayingat.

But instead of retortingswiftly, snapping back likeKilorn would, he falls silent.

Adark lookcrosseshis face.“Are you heading back?” hesays suddenly, gesturingdowntheroad.

“Why, scared of thedark?” I drawl, folding myarmsacrossmychest.But inthe pit of my stomach, Iwonder if I should be afraid.He’s strong, he’s fast, andyou’reallaloneouthere.

Hissmilereturns,andthecomfort it gives me is

unsettling.“No,butIwanttomake sure you keep yourhands toyourself for the restof the night. Can’t have youdriving half the bar out ofhouseandhome,canwe?I’mCal, by the way,” he adds,stretching out a hand toshake.

I don’t take it,rememberingtheblazingheatof his skin. Instead, I set offdown the road, my steps

quick and quiet. “MareBarrow,” I tell him over myshoulder, and it doesn’t takemuch for his long legs tocatchup.

“So are you always thispleasant?” he prods, and forsomereason,IfeelverymuchlikeI’mbeingexamined.Butthe cold silver in my handkeepsmecalm,remindingmeof what else he has in hispockets. Silver for Farley.

Howfitting.“The lordsmustpaywell

for you to carry wholecrowns,” I retort, hoping toscare him off the topic. Itworks beautifully and heretreats.

“I have a good job,” heexplains, trying to brush itoff.

“Thatmakesoneofus.”“Butyou’re—”“Seventeen,” I finish for

him. “I still have some timebeforeconscription.”

He narrows his eyes, lipstwisting into a grim line.Something hard creeps intohis voice, sharpening hiswords.“Howmuchtime?”

“Less every day.” Justsaying it aloud makes myinsides ache.AndKilorn hasevenlessthanme.

His words die away andhe’s staring again, surveying

me as we walk through thewoods.Thinking. “And therearenojobs,”hemutters,moretohimself thanme.“Nowayfor you to avoidconscription.”

Hisconfusionpuzzlesme.“Maybe things are differentwhereyou’refrom.”

“Soyousteal.”Isteal.“It’sthebestIcan

do,” falls from my lips.Again, I remember that

causing pain is all I’m goodfor. “My sister has a jobthough.” It slips out before Iremember—No she doesn’t.Notanymore.Becauseofyou.

Cal watches me battlewith the words, wonderingwhether or not to correctmyself. It’s all I can do tokeepmyfacestraight,tokeepfrom breaking down entirelyin front of a completestranger. But he must see

what I’m trying to hide.“Were you at the Halltoday?” I think he alreadyknows theanswer.“Theriotswereterrible.”

“They were.” I almostchokeonthewords.

“Didyou...,”hepressesin the quietest, calmest way.It’s like poking a hole in adam,anditallcomesspillingout.Icouldn’tstopthewordsevenifIwantedto.

Idon’tmentionFarleyorthe Scarlet Guard or evenKilorn. Just that my sisterslipped me into GrandGarden, to help me steal themoneyweneeded tosurvive.Then came Gisa’s mistake,her injury, what it meant tous. What I’ve done to myfamily. What I have beendoing, disappointing mymother, embarrassing myfather, stealing from the

people I callmy community.Hereontheroadwithnothingbutdarknessaroundme,Itella stranger how terrible I am.He doesn’t ask questions,even when I don’t makesense.Hejustlistens.

“It’s thebest I cando,” Isay again before my voicegivesoutentirely.

Then silver shines in thecorner of my eye. He’sholding up another coin. In

themoonlight, I can just seethe outline of the king’sflaming crown stamped intothemetal.Whenhepressesitintomyhand,Iexpecttofeelhis heat again, but he’s gonecold.

I don’t want your pity, Ifeel like screaming, but thatwould be foolish. The coinwillbuywhatGisanolongercan.

“I’m truly sorry for you,

Mare. Things shouldn’t belikethis.”

I can’t even summon thestrength to frown.“Thereareworselivestolive.Don’tfeelsorryforme.”

He leaves me at the edge ofthe village, letting me walkthroughthestilthousesalone.Somethingaboutthemudandshadows makes Caluncomfortable, and he

disappears before I get achance to look back andthankthestrangeservant.

My home is quiet anddark, but even so, I shudderinfear.Themorningseemsahundred years away, part ofanother life where I wasstupidandselfishandmaybeevenalittlebithappy.NowIhave nothing but aconscripted friend and asister’sbrokenbones.

“You shouldn’t worryyour mother like that,” myfather’s voice rumbles at mefrom behind one of the stiltpoles. I haven’t seen him onthegroundinmoreyearsthanIcaretoremember.

My voice squeaks insurprise and fear. “Dad?Whatareyoudoing?Howdidyou—?”Buthejabsa thumbover his shoulder, to thepulley rig dangling from the

house. For the first time, heusedit.

“Power went out.Thought I’d give it a look,”he says, gruff as ever. Hewheels past me, stopping infront of the utility box pipedinto theground.Everyhousehas one, regulating theelectric charge that keeps thelightson.

Dad wheezes to himself,his chest clicking with each

breath. Maybe Gisa will belike him now, her hand ametallicmess, her brain tornandbitterwiththethoughtofwhatcouldhavebeen.

“Why don’t you just usethe’lecpapersIgetyou?”

In response, Dad pulls aration paper from his shirtand feeds it into the box.Normally, the thing wouldspark to life, but nothinghappens.Broken.

“No use,” Dad sighs,sitting back in his chair.Webothstareattheutilitybox,ata lossforwords,notwantingto move, not wanting to goback upstairs. Dad ran justlike I did, unable to stay inthe house, where Mom wassurely crying over Gisa,weeping for lost dreams,while my sister tried not tojoinher.

He bats the box like

hitting the damn thing cansuddenly bring light andwarmthandhopeback tous.His actions become moreharried, more desperate, andanger radiates fromhim.Notatme orGisa but theworld.Long ago he called us ants,Red ants burning in the lightofaSilversun.Destroyedbythegreatnessofothers,losingthebattleforourrighttoexistbecause we are not special.

Wedidnotevolvelikethem,with powers and strengthsbeyond our limitedimaginations. We stayed thesame, stagnant in our ownbodies. The world changedaroundus andwe stayed thesame.

Then the anger is in metoo, cursing Farley, Kilorn,conscription,everylittlethingIcanthinkof.Themetalboxis cool to the touch, having

long lost the heat ofelectricity. But there arevibrations still, deep in themechanism, waiting to beswitched back on. I losemyself in trying to find theelectricity, to bring it backandprovethatevenonesmallthingcango right in aworldso wrong. Something sharpmeets my fingertips, makingmy body jolt. An exposedwire or faulty switch, I tell

myself. It feels like apinprick,likeaneedlespikingin my nerves, but the painneverfollows.

Aboveus, theporch lighthumstolife.

“Well, fancy that,” Dadmutters.

He spins in the mud,wheeling himself back to thepulley. I follow quietly, notwanting to bring up thereason we are both so afraid

oftheplacewecallhome.“No more running,” he

breathes, buckling himselfintotherig.

“No more running,” Iagree, more for myself thanhim.

The rig whines with thestrain, hoistinghimup to theporch. I’m quicker on theladder, so I wait for him atthe top, thenwordlessly helpdetach him from the rig.

“Bugger of a thing,” Dadgrumbles when we finallyunsnapthelastbuckle.

“Mom will be happyyou’re getting out of thehouse.”

He looks up at mesharply, grabbing my hand.Though Dad barely worksnow, repairing trinkets andwhittling for kids, his handsare still rough and callused,likehejustreturnedfromthe

front lines. The war neverleaves.

“Don’ttellyourmother.”“But—”“I know it seems like

nothing, but it’s enough ofsomething.She’ll think it’s asmall step on a big journey,you see? First I leave thehouse at night, then duringthe day, then I’m rollingaround the market with herlike it’s twenty years ago.

Then things go back to theway they were.” His eyesdarken as he speaks, fightingto keep his voice low andlevel. “I’m never gettingbetter,Mare.I’mnevergoingto feel better. I can’t let herhope for that, not when Iknow it’ll never happen. Doyouunderstand?”

Alltoowell,Dad.He knowswhat hope has

done to me and softens. “I

wishthingsweredifferent.”“Wealldo.”Despite the shadows, I

can see Gisa’s broken handwhen I get up to the loft.Normallyshesleepsinaball,curled up under a thinblanket, but now she lies onher back, with her injuryelevated on a pile of clothes.Mom reset her splint,improving my meagerattempt to help, and the

bandages are fresh. I don’tneed light to know her poorhand is black with bruises.She sleeps restlessly, herbody tossing, but her armstays still. Even in sleep, ithurtsher.

Iwanttoreachouttoher,buthowcanImakeupfortheterribleeventsoftheday?

I pull out Shade’s letterfrom the little box where Ikeepallhis correspondences.

Ifnothingelse,thiswillcalmme down. His jokes, hiswords, his voice trapped inthe page always soothe me.ButasIscantheletteragain,a senseofdreadpools inmystomach.

“Redasthedawn...”theletter reads.There it is, plainas the nose on my face.Farley’s words from hervideo, the Scarlet Guard’srallying cry, in my brother’s

handwriting. The phrase istoo strange to ignore, toounique to brush off. And thenext sentence, “see the sunrisestronger...”Mybrotheris smart but practical. Hedoesn’tcareaboutsunrisesordawns or witty turns ofphrase.Riseechoesinme,butinstead of Farley’s voice inmy head, it’s my brotherspeaking. Rise, red as thedawn.

Somehow, Shade knew.Many weeks ago, before thebombing, before Farley’sbroadcast, Shade knew abouttheScarletGuardandtriedtotellus.Why?

Becausehe’soneofthem.

SIX

Whenthedoorbangsopenatdawn, I’m not frightened.Securitysearchesarenormal,though we usually only getone or two a year. This willbethethird.

“C’mon, Gee,” I mutter,helpingheroutofhercotanddown the ladder. She movesprecariously, leaning on her

goodarm,andMomwaitsforus on the floor. Her armsclose around Gisa, but hereyes are on me. To mysurprise, she doesn’t lookangry or even disappointedwithme. Instead, her gaze issoft.

Two officers wait by thedoor, their guns hanging bytheir sides. I recognize themfrom the village outpost, butthere’s another figure, a

young woman in red with atriple-colored crown badgeover her heart. A royalservant,aRedwhoservestheking, I realize,andIbegin tounderstand. This is not ausualsearch.

“Wesubmittosearchandseizure,”myfathergrumbles,speaking the words he mustevery time this happens. Butinsteadofsplittingofftopawthrough our house, the

Securityofficersstandfirm.The young woman steps

forward and, to my horror,addressesme.“MareBarrow,you have been summoned toSummerton.”

Gisa’s good hand closesaround mine, like she canhold me back. “W-What?” Imanagetostammer.

“You have beensummoned to Summerton,”she repeats, and gestures to

thedoor.“Wewillescortyou.Pleaseproceed.”

A summons. For a Red.NeverinmylifehaveIheardof sucha thing.Sowhyme?What have I done to deservethis?

Onsecond thought, I’macriminal and probablyconsidered a terrorist due tomy association with Farley.My body prickles withnerves,everymuscletautand

ready. I’ll have to run, eventhough the officers block thedoor. It’ll be a miracle if Imakeittoawindow.

“Calmdown,everything’ssettled after yesterday.” Shechuckles, mistaking my fear.“TheHallandthemarketarewell controlled now. Pleaseproceed.”Tomysurprise,shesmiles, even as the Securityofficers clench their guns. Itputsachillinmyblood.

To refuse Security, torefuse a royal summons,would mean death—and notjust for me. “Okay,” Imumble,untanglingmyhandfrom Gisa’s. She moves tograbontome,butourmotherpulls her back. “I’ll see youlater?”

Thequestionhangsintheair, and I feel Dad’s warmhand brush my arm. He’ssayinggood-bye.Mom’seyes

swim with unshed tears, andGisa’s trying not to blink, toremember every last secondof me. I don’t even havesomething I can leave her.Butbefore I can lingeror letmyself cry, an officer takesme by the arm and pullsmeaway.

The words forcethemselves past my lips,though they come out asbarely more than a whisper.

“Iloveyou.”And then the door slams

behindme,shuttingmeoutofmyhomeandmylife.

They hasten me throughthe village, down the road tothe market square. We passby Kilorn’s run-down house.Usually he’s awake by now,halfway to the river to startthe day early when it’s stillcool,butthosedaysaregone.Now I bet he sleeps through

half the day, enjoying whatlittle comforts he can beforeconscription. Part of mewants to yell good-bye tohim, but I don’t. He’ll comesniffing around for me later,and Gisa will tell himeverything. With a silentlaughI remember thatFarleywill be expecting me today,with a fortune in payment.She’llbedisappointed.

In the square, a gleaming

black transport waits for us.Four wheels, glass windows,rounded to the ground—itlooks like a beast ready toconsumeme.Anotherofficersits at the controls and gunsthe engine when weapproach, spitting blacksmokeintotheearly-morningair. I’m forced into the backwithout a word, and theservant barely slides in nextto me before the transport

takes off, racing down theroad at speeds I had nevereven imagined. This will bemy first—and last—timeridinginone.

I want to speak, to askwhat’sgoingon,howthey’regoing to punish me for mycrimes,butIknowmywordswill fall on deaf ears. So Istare out the window,watching the villagedisappear as we enter the

forest, racing down thefamiliar northern road. It’snot so crowded as yesterday,and Security officers dot theway. The Hall is controlled,the servant had said. Isuppose this is what shemeant.

The diamondglass wallshines ahead, reflecting thesun as it rises from thewoods.Iwanttosquint,butIkeepmyselfstill.Imustkeep

myeyesopenhere.The gate crawls with

black uniforms, all Securityofficers checking andrechecking travelers as theyenter. When we coast to astop,theservingwomanpullsme out of the transport andpast the line and through thegate.Nooneprotests,orevenbotherstocheckforIDs.Shemustbefamiliarhere.

Once we’re inside, she

glances back at me. “I’mAnn, by the way, but wemostlygobylastnames.CallmeWalsh.”

Walsh. The name soundsfamiliar. Paired with herfadedhairandtannedskin, itcan mean only one thing.“You’refrom...?”

“TheStilts,sameasyou.Iknew your brother Tramy,and I wish I didn’t knowBree.Arealheartbreaker,that

one.” Bree had a reputationaround the village before heleft.He toldmeonce thathedidn’t fear conscription asmuch as everyone elsebecause the dozenbloodthirsty girls he wasleavingbehindwerefarmoredangerous.“Idon’tknowyouthough.ButIcertainlywill.”

I can’t help but bristle.“What’s that supposed tomean?”

“I mean you’re going tobeworkinglonghourshere.Idon’tknowwhohiredyouorwhat they told you about thejob, but it starts to wear onyou. It’s not all changingbedsheetsandcleaningplates.You have to look withoutseeing,hearwithoutlistening.We’reobjectsupthere,livingstatues meant to serve.” Shesighs to herself and turns,wrenching open a door built

rightintothesideofthegate.“Especially now, with thisScarlet Guard business. It’snever a good time to be aRed,butthisisverybad.”

She steps through thedoor,seeminglyintothesolidwall.Ittakesmeamomenttorealize she’s going down aflight of stairs, disappearingintosemidarkness.

“Thejob?”Ipress.“Whatjob?Whatisthis?”

Sheturnsonthestairs,allbut rolling her eyes at me.“You’ve been summoned tofill a serving post,” she sayslike it’s the most obviousthingintheworld.

Working. A job. I almostfalloveratthethought.

Cal. He said he had agood job—and now he’spulledsomestrings todo thesameforme.Imightevenbeworking with him. My heart

leaps at the prospect,knowingwhatthismeans.I’mnotgoingtodie,I’mnotevengoing to fight. I’m going towork and I’m going to live.And later,when I findCal, Ican convince him to do thesameforKilorn.

“Keep up, I don’t havetimetoholdyourhand!”

Scrambling after her, Idescend into a surprisinglydarktunnel.Smalllightsglow

on the walls, making it justpossible to see. Pipes runoverhead, humming withrunningwaterandelectricity.

“Where arewe going?” Ifinallybreathe.

IcanalmosthearWalsh’sdismay as she turns to me,confused. “The Hall of theSun,ofcourse.”

Forasecond,IthinkIcanfeel my heart stop. “Wha-what? The palace, the actual

palace?”Shetapsthebadgeonher

uniform.Thecrownwinks inthelowlight.

“You serve the kingnow.”

They have a uniform readyforme,but Ibarelynotice it.I’m too amazed by mysurroundings, the tan stoneandglitteringmosaicfloorofthis forgotten hall in the

house of a king. Otherservants bustle past in aparade of red uniforms. Isearchtheirfaces,lookingforCal, wanting to thank him,butheneverappears.

Walsh stays by me,whispering advice. “Saynothing.Hearnothing.Speakto no one, for they will notspeaktoyou.”

I can hardly keep thewords straight; the last two

dayshavebeena ruinonmyheartandsoul.Ithinklifehassimply decided to open thefloodgates, trying to drownme in a whirlwind of twistsandturns.

“Youcameonabusyday,perhaps the worst we willeversee.”

“I saw the boats andairships—Silvers have beengoing upriver for weeks,” Isay. “More than usual, even

forthistimeofyear.”Walsh hurries me along,

pushing a tray of glitteringcups into my hands. Surelythese things can buy myfreedomandKilorn’s,buttheHall isguardedateverydoorand window. I could neverslipbysomanyofficers,evenwithallmyskills.

“What’s happeningtoday?”Idumblyask.Alockof my dark hair falls in my

eyes, and before I can try toswish it away,Walsh pushesthe hair back and fastens itwith a tiny pin, her motionsquick and precise. “Is that astupidquestion?”

“No, I didn’t knowaboutit either, not until we startedpreparing. After all, theyhaven’t had one for twentyyears,sinceQueenElarawasselected.” She speaks so fasther words almost blur

together. “Today isQueenstrial.Thedaughtersofthe High Houses, the greatSilverfamilies,haveallcometo offer themselves to theprince. There’s a big feasttonight, but now they’re inthe Spiral Garden, preparingto present, hoping to bechosen. One of those girlsgetstobethenextqueen,andthey’re slapping each othersillyforthechance.”

An image of a bunch ofpeacocks flashes inmyhead.“So,what,theydoaspin,saya few words, bat theireyelashes?”

But Walsh snorts at me,shaking her head. “Hardly.”Thenhereyesglitter.“You’reonservingduty,soyou’llgettoseeforyourself.”

The doors loom ahead,made of carved wood andflowing glass. A servant

props them open, allowingthe line of red uniforms tomove through. And then it’smyturn.

“Aren’t you coming?” Ican hear the desperation inmy voice, almost beggingWalsh to stay with me. Butshe backs away, leaving mealone. Before I can hold upthe lineorotherwise ruin theorganized assembly ofservants, I force myself

forward and out into thesunlight of what she calledtheSpiralGarden.

At first I think I’m in themiddle of another arena liketheonebackhome.Thespacecurves downward into animmensebowl,butinsteadofstone benches, tables andplush chairs crowd the spiralof terraces. Plants andfountains trickle down thesteps, dividing the terraces

into boxes. They join at thebottom, decorating a grassycircle ringed with stonestatues. Ahead of me is aboxed area drippingwith redand black silk. Four seats,eachonemadeofunforgivingiron,lookdownonthefloor.

Whatinhellisthisplace?My work goes by in a

blur,followingtheleadoftheother Reds. I’m a kitchenserver,meanttoclean,aidthe

cooks, and currently, preparethe arena for the upcomingevent. Why the royals needan arena, I’m not sure. Backhome they are only used forFeats, towatchSilveragainstSilver,butwhatcoulditmeanhere?This isapalace.Bloodwill never stain these floors.Yet the not-arena fills mewith a dreadful feeling offoreboding. The pricklingsensation returns, pulsing

under my skin in waves. BythetimeIfinishandreturntothe servant entrance,Queenstrialisabouttobegin.

The other servants makethemselvesscarce,moving toan elevated platformsurroundedbysheercurtains.I scramble after them andbump into line, just asanother set of doors opens,directly between the royalbox and the servants’

entrance.It’sstarting.Mymind flashes back to

Grand Garden, to thebeautiful, cruel creaturescalling themselves human.Allflashyandvain,withhardeyes and worse tempers.These Silvers, the HighHouses,asWalshcalls them,will be no different. Theymightevenbeworse.

Theyenterasacrowd, in

a flock of colors that splitsaround the Spiral Gardenwithcoldgrace.Thedifferentfamilies, or houses, are easyto spot; they all wear thesame colors as each other.Purple, green, black, yellow,a rainbow of shades movingtoward their family boxes. Iquickly lose count of themall.Justhowmanyhousesarethere? More and more jointhe crowd, some stopping to

talk, others embracing withstiffarms.This isaparty forthem, I realize. Mostprobably have little hope toput forth a queen and this isjustavacation.

Butafewdon’tlooktobein the celebrating mood. Asilver-haired family in blacksilk sits in focused silence tothe right of the king’s box.Thepatriarchofthehousehasa pointed beard and black

eyes. Farther down, a houseofnavyblueandwhitemuttertogether. To my surprise, Irecognize one of them.Samson Merandus, thewhisper I saw in the arena afew days ago. Unlike theothers,hestaresdarklyatthefloor,hisattentionelsewhere.Imakeanotetomyselfnottorun into him or his deadlyabilities.

Strangely,though,Idon’t

seeanygirlsofagetomarryaprince. Perhaps they’repreparing elsewhere, eagerlyawaitingtheirchancetowinacrown.

Occasionally, someonepressesasquaremetalbuttonon their table to flick on alight,indicatingtheyrequireaservant.Whoever’sclosest tothedoorattendstothem,andthe rest of us shuffle along,waiting forour turn to serve.

Ofcourse,thesecondImovenexttothedoor,thewretchedblack-eyedpatriarchslapsthebuttononhistable.

Thank heavens for myfeet,whichhavenever failedme. Inearly skip through thecrowd, dancing betweenroving bodies as my hearthammersinmychest.Insteadofstealingfromthesepeople,I mean to serve them. TheMare Barrow of last week

wouldn’t know whether tolaughorcryatthisversionofherself.Butshewasafoolishgirl,andnowIpaytheprice.

“Sir?” I say, facing thepatriarch who had called forservice.Inmyhead,Icurseatmyself. Say nothing is thefirst rule, and I have alreadybrokenit.

But he doesn’t seem tonotice and simply holds uphis empty water glass, a

bored look on his face.“They’re toying with us,Ptolemus,”hegrumblestothemuscled young man next tohim. I assume he is the oneunfortunate enough to becalledPtolemus.

“A demonstration ofpower, Father,” Ptolemusreplies, draining his ownglass.He holds it out tome,and I take it withouthesitation. “They make us

waitbecausetheycan.”They are the royals who

have yet to make anappearance.ButtoheartheseSilvers discuss them so,withsuch disdain, is perplexing.WeReds insult the king andthenoblesifwecangetawaywith it, but I think that’s ourprerogative. These peoplehave never suffered a day intheir lives. What problemscouldtheypossiblyhavewith

eachother?I want to stay and listen,

butevenIknowthat’sagainstthe rules. I turn around,climbinga flightof stepsoutof their box. There’s a sinkhidden behind some brightlycoloredflowers,probablysoIdon’t have to go all thewayback around the not-arena torefill their drinks. That’swhen a metallic, sharp tonereverberates through the

space, much like the one atthe beginning of the FirstFriday Feats. It chirps a fewtimes, sounding out a proudmelody, heraldingwhatmustbe the entrance of the king.All around, theHighHousesrise to their feet,begrudgingly or not. I noticePtolemusmuttersomethingtohisfatheragain.

From my vantage point,hidden behind the flowers,

I’mlevelwiththeking’sboxand slightly behind it. MareBarrow,afewyardsfromtheking.Whatwouldmy familythink, or Kilorn for thatmatter?Thismansendsustodie, and I’ve willinglybecomehis servant. Itmakesmesick.

He enters briskly,shoulders set and straight.Evenfrombehind,he’smuchfatter than he looks on the

coinsandbroadcasts,butalsotaller. His uniform is blackand red, with a military cut,though I doubt he’s everspent a single day in thetrenchesReds die in.Badgesand medals glitter on hisbreast, a testament to thingshe’s never done. He evenwears a gilded sword despitethemanyguardsaroundhim.The crown on his head isfamiliar,madeof twisted red

gold and black iron, eachpointaburstofcurlingflame.It seems to burn against hisinky black hair flecked withgray.Howfitting,forthekingisaburner,aswashisfather,andhisfatherbeforehim,andso on. Destructive, powerfulcontrollers of heat and fire.Once,ourkingsused toburndissenters with nothingmorethan a flaming touch. Thisking might not burn Reds

anymore, but he still kills uswithwar and ruin.His nameisoneI’veknownsinceIwasa little girl sitting in theschoolroom, still eager tolearn, as if it could get mesomewhere. Tiberias Calorethe Sixth, King of Norta,Flame of the North. Amouthful if there ever wasone.IwouldspitonhisnameifIcould.

The queen follows him,

nodding at the crowd.Whereas the king’s clothesaredarkandseverelycut,hernavy and white garb is airyand light. She bows only toSamson’shouse,andIrealizeshe’swearingthesamecolorsas them. She must be theirkin, judging by the familyresemblance.Sameash-blondhair, blue eyes, and pointedsmile,makingherlooklikeawild,predatorycat.

As intimidating as theroyals seem, they’re nothingcompared to the guards whofollow them. Even thoughI’m a Red born in mud, Iknowwhotheyare.Everyoneknowswhat a Sentinel lookslike,becausenoonewantstomeet them. They flank theking in every broadcast, atevery speech or decree. Asalways, their uniforms looklikeflame,flickeringbetween

redandorange,andtheireyesglitter behind fearsome blackmasks. Each one carries ablack rifle tipped with agleaming silver bayonet thatcould cut bone. Their skillsare even more frighteningthan their appearances—elitewarriorsfromdifferentSilverhouses, trained fromchildhood, sworn to the kingandhisfamilyfortheirentirelives. They’re enough to

makemeshiver.ButtheHighHousesaren’tafraidatall.

Somewhere deep in theboxes, the yelling starts.“DeathtotheScarletGuard!”someone shouts, and othersquicklychimein.AchillgoesthroughmeasIremembertheevents of yesterday, now sofar away. How quickly thiscrowdcouldturn....

The king looks ruffled,paling at the noise. He’s not

usedtooutburstslikethisandalmostsnarlsattheshouts.

“The Scarlet Guard—andall our enemies—are beingdealtwith!”Tiberiasrumbles,his voice echoing out amongthe crowd. It silences themlikethecrackofawhip.“Butthatisnotwhatweareheretoaddress. Today we honortradition, and no Red devilwill impede that. Now is therite of Queenstrial, to bring

forth the most talenteddaughter to wed the mostnoble son. In this we findstrength, to bind the HighHouses,andpower,toensureSilver rule until the end ofdays, to defeat our enemies,on the borders, and withinthem.”

“Strength,” the crowdrumbles back at him. It’sfrightening.“Power.”

“Thetimehascomeagain

toupholdthisideal,andbothmy sons honor our mostsolemncustom.”Hewaves ahand, and two figures stepforward,flankingtheirfather.I cannot see their faces, butbotharetallandblack-haired,like the king. They toowearmilitary uniforms. “ThePrince Maven, of HouseCalore andMerandus, sonofmy royal wife, the QueenElara.”

The second prince, palerand slighter than the other,raises a hand in sterngreeting. He turns left andright,andIcatchaglimpseofhis face. Though he has aregal,seriouslooktohim,hecan’tbemorethanseventeen.Sharp-featuredandblue-eyed,he could freeze fire with hissmile—he despises thispageantry. I have to agreewithhim.

“AndthecrownprinceofHouseCalore and Jacos, sonof my late wife, the QueenCoriane,heir totheKingdomof Norta and the BurningCrown, Tiberias theSeventh.”

I’m too busy laughing atthe sheer absurdity of thenametonoticetheyoungmanwavingandsmiling.FinallyIraise my eyes, just to say Iwas this close to the future

king. But I get much morethanIbargainedfor.

The glass goblets in myhands drop, landingharmlessly in the sink ofwater.

I know that smile, and Iknow those eyes. Theyburned into mine only lastnight.Hegotme this job;hesaved me from conscription.He was one of us.How canthisbe?

And then he turns fully,wavingallaround.There’snomistakingit.

ThecrownprinceisCal.

SEVEN

I return to the servants’platform, a hollow feeling inmy stomach. Whateverhappiness I felt before iscompletelygone.Ican’tbringmyself to look back, to seehim standing there in fineclothes,drippingwithribbonsandmedalsandtheroyalairsI hate. LikeWalsh, he bears

the badge of the flamingcrown, but his is made ofdark jet, diamond, and ruby.It winks against the hardblack of his uniform. Goneare the drab clothes he worelast night, used to blend inwith peasants like me. Nowhe looks every inch a futureking, Silver to the bone. TothinkItrustedhim.

The other servants makeway,lettingmeshuffletothe

back of the line while myhead spins. He got me thisjob, he saved me, saved myfamily—and he is one ofthem. Worse than one ofthem. A prince. The prince.The person everyone in thisspiral stone monstrosity isheretosee.

“Allofyouhavecometohonor my son and thekingdom, and so I honoryou,” King Tiberias booms,

breakingapartmythoughtsasif they were glass. He raiseshis arms, gesturing to themany boxes of people.Though I try my hardest tokeep my eyes on the king, Ican’t help but glance at Cal.He’s smiling, but it doesn’treachhiseyes.

“I honor your right torule.Thefutureking, thesonof my son, will be of yoursilverblood, as he will be of

mine. Who will claim theirright?”

The silver-hairedpatriarch barks out inresponse. “I claimQueenstrial!”

All over the spiral, theleadersofthedifferenthousesshout in unison. “I claimQueenstrial!” they echo,upholding some tradition Idon’tunderstand.

Tiberias smiles and nods.

“Then it has begun. LordProvos,ifyouwould.”

The king turns on thespot, looking toward what IassumeisHouseProvos.Therest of the spiral follow hisgaze, their eyes landing on afamilydressedingoldstripedwithblack.Anolderman,hisgrayhairshotwithstreaksofwhite, steps forward. In hisstrangeclotheshelookslikeawaspabouttosting.Whenhe

twitches his hand, I don’tknowwhattoexpect.

Suddenly, the platformlurches, moving sideways. Ican’t help but jump, almostknocking into the servantnexttome,asweslidealongan unseen track. My heartrises inmy throat as Iwatchthe rest of the Spiral Gardenspin. Lord Provos is a telky,moving the structure alongprebuilt tracks with nothing

butthepowerofhismind.Theentirestructuretwists

underhiscommand,until thegarden floor widens into ahuge circle. The lowerterraces pull back, aligningwiththeupperlevels,andthespiral becomes a massivecylinder open to the sky. Asthe terraces move, the floorlowers, until it stops nearlytwenty feet below the lowestbox. The fountains turn into

waterfalls, spilling from thetop of the cylinder to thebottom,where they fill deep,narrow pools. Our platformglides to a stop above theking’s box, allowing us aperfect view of everything,includingthefloorfarbelow.All this takes less than aminute, with Lord Provostransforming the SpiralGarden into somethingmuchmoresinister.

But when Provos takeshis seat again, the change isstill not done. The hum ofelectricity rises until itcrackles all around, makingthe hairs on my arms standup. A purple-white lightblazes near the floor of thegarden, sparkingwith energyfrom tiny, unseen points inthestone.NoSilverstandsupto command it, like Provosdid with an arena. I realize

why. This is not someSilver’s doing but a wonderof technology, of electricity.Lightning without thunder.Thebeamsof lightcrisscrossand intersect, weavingthemselves into a brilliant,blindingnet.Justlookingatithurtsmy eyes, sending sharpdaggers of pain through myhead. How the others canstandit,Ihavenoidea.

The Silvers look

impressed, intrigued withsomething theycan’t control.As for us Reds, we gape incompleteawe.

Thenetcrystallizesastheelectricityexpandsandveins.And then, as suddenly as itcame, the noise stops. Thelightning freezes, solidifyingin midair, creating a clear,purple shield between thefloorandus.Betweenusandwhatevermight appear down

there.My mind runs wild,

wonderingwhatcouldrequirea shield made of lightning.Not a bear or a pack ofwolves or any of the rarebeastsof the forest.Even thecreatures of myth, great catsor sea sharks or dragons,would pose no harm to themanySilversabove.Andwhywould there be beasts atQueenstrial?Thisissupposed

to be a ceremony to choosequeens,notfightmonsters.

As if answering me, theground in the circle ofstatues, now the small centerof the cylinder floor, openswide. Without thinking, Ipushforward,hopingtogetabetter look with my owneyes.Therestof theservantscrowdwithme, trying to seewhat horrors this chambercanbringforth.

ThesmallestgirlI’veeverseenrisesoutofdarkness.

Cheers rise as a house inbrownsilkandredgemstonesapplaudstheirdaughter.

“Rohr, of HouseRhambos,”thefamilyshouts,announcinghertotheworld.

The girl, no more thanfourteen, smiles up at herfamily. She’s tiny incomparisontothestatues,butherhandsarestrangelylarge.

Therestofherlooksliabletoblowawayinastrongbreeze.She takes a turn about thering of statues, alwayssmiling upward. Her gazelands on Cal—I mean theprince—trying to entice himwith her doe eyes or theoccasional flip of honey-blondhair.Inshort,shelooksfoolish.Until she approachesa solid stone statue andsloughs its head off with a

single,simpleslap.House Rhambos speaks

again.“Strongarm.”Below us, little Rohr

destroys the floor in awhirlwind, turning statuesinto pulverized piles of dustwhile she cracks the groundbeneathherfeet.She’slikeanearthquake in tiny humanform,breakingapartanythingandeverythinginherway.

Sothisisapageant.

A violent one, meant toshowcase a girl’s beauty,splendor—and strength. Themost talented daughter. Thisisadisplayofpower, topairthe prince with the mostpowerful girl, so that theirchildren might be thestrongest of all.And this hasbeengoingonforhundredsofyears.

I shudder to think of thestrength in Cal’s pinkie

finger.He claps politely as the

Rhambos girl finishes herdisplay of organizeddestruction and steps backontothedescendingplatform.House Rhambos cheers forherasshedisappears.

Next comes Heron ofHouseWelle, thedaughterofmyowngovernor.She’s tall,with a face like her birdnamesake. The destroyed

earthshiftsaroundherassheputs the floor back together.“Greenwarden,” her familychants. A greeny. At hercommand, trees grow tall intheblinkofaneye,theirtopsscrapingagainst the lightningshield. It sparks where theboughs touch, setting fire tothe fresh leaves. The nextgirl, a nymph of HouseOsanos,risestotheoccasion.Usingthewaterfallfountains,

she douses the containedforest fire in a hurricane ofwhitewater, leaving onlycharred trees and scorchedearth.

This goes on for whatfeels like hours. Each girlrises up to show her worth,and each one finds a moredestroyed arena, but they’retrainedtodealwithanything.They range in age andappearance, but they are all

dazzling. One girl, barelytwelve years old, explodeseverything she touches likesome kind ofwalking bomb.“Oblivion,”herfamilyshouts,describingherpower.As sheobliterates the last of thewhite statues, the lightningshield holds firm. It hissesagainstherfire,andthenoiseshrieksinmyears.

The electricity, theSilvers,andtheshoutsblurin

my head as I watch nymphsand greenys, swifts,strongarms, telkies, andwhatseems like a hundred otherkinds of Silver show offbeneath the shield. Things Inever dreamed possiblehappen before my eyes, asgirls turn their skin to stoneor scream apart walls ofglass.TheSilvers are greaterand stronger than I everfeared, with powers I never

even knew existed.How canthesepeoplebereal?

I’vecomeallthiswayandsuddenly I’m back in thearena, watching Silversdisplayeverythingwearenot.

Iwanttomarvelinaweasa creature-controlling animoscalls down a thousand dovesfrom the sky. When birdsdive headfirst into thelightning shield, bursting inlittle clouds of blood,

feathers, and deadlyelectricity, my awe turns todisgust. The shield sparksagain, burning upwhat’s leftofthebirdsuntilitshineslikenew. I almost retch at thesound of applause when thecold-blooded animos sinksbackintothefloor.

Another girl, hopefullythe last, rises into an arenanowreducedtodust.

“Evangeline, of House

Samos,”yellsthepatriarchofthe silver-haired family. Hespeaks alone, and his voiceechoes across the SpiralGarden.

Frommyvantagepoint, Inotice thekingandqueen situpabitstraighter.Evangelinealreadyhas theirattention. Instark contrast, Cal looksdownathishands.

Whiletheothergirlsworesilk dresses and a few had

strange, gilded armor,Evangeline rises in an outfitofblackleather.Jacket,pants,boots, all studded with hardsilver. No, not silver. Iron.Silver is not so dull or hard.Her house cheers for her, allof them on their feet. Shebelongs to Ptolemus and thepatriarch, but others cheertoo,otherfamilies.Theywanther to be queen. She is thefavorite. She salutes, two

fingers to her brow, first toher family and then to theking’s box. They return thegesture, blatantly favoringthisEvangeline.

Maybe this is more likethe Feats than I realized.ExceptinsteadofshowingtheRedswherewe stand, this isthekingshowinghissubjects,powerful as they are, wheretheystand.Ahierarchywithinthehierarchy.

I’ve been so preoccupiedwith the trials that I almostdon’t notice when it’s myturn to serve again. Beforeanyone can nudge me in therightdirection,Isetofftotheright box, barely hearing theSamos patriarch speak.“Magnetron,”Ithinkhesays,but I have no idea what itmeans.

I move through thenarrow corridors that were

onceopenwalkways,downtothe Silvers requiring service.Theboxisat thebottom,butI’mquickandtakealmostnotime getting down to them. Ifind a particularly fat clandressed in garish yellow silkand awful feathers, allenjoying a massive cake.Plates and empty cups litterthe box, and I get to workcleaning them up, my handsquick and practiced.A video

screen blares inside the box,displaying Evangeline, whoseems to be standing stilldownonthefloor.

“Whatafarcethisis,”oneof the fat yellow birdsgrumblesashestuffshisface.“The Samos girl has alreadywon.”

Strange. She seems to betheweakestofall.

I pile the plates but keepmy eyes on the screen,

watchingherprowlacrossthewasted floor. It doesn’t seemlike there’s anything for herto work with, to show whatshe can do, but she doesn’tseem to mind. Her smirk isterrible, like she’s totallyconvinced of her ownmagnificence. She doesn’tlookmagnificenttome.

Thentheironstudsonherjacketmove.Theyfloatintheair, each one a hard round

bullet of metal. Then, likeshotsfromagun,theyrocketaway from Evangeline,digging into the dust and thewalls and even the lightningshield.

Shecancontrolmetal.Severalboxesapplaudfor

her, but she’s far fromfinished. Groans and clanksecho up to us fromsomewheredeepdownin thestructure of the Spiral

Garden. Even the fat familystops eating to look around,perplexed.Theyareconfusedand intrigued, but I can feelthe vibrations deep beneathmyfeet.Iknowtobeafraid.

With an earth-shatteringnoise,metalpipessplinterthefloor of the arena, rising upfrom far below. They burstthrough the walls,surrounding Evangeline in atwisted crown of gray and

silver metal. She looks likeshe’s laughing, but thedeafening crunch of metaldrowns her out. Sparks fallfromthelightningshield,andshe protects herself withscrap, not even breaking asweat. Finally she lets themetal drop with a horriblesmash. She turns her eyesskyward, to theboxesabove.Her mouth is open wide,showingsharplittleteeth.She

lookshungry.It starts slowly, a slight

change in balance, until thewhole box lurches. Platescrash to the floor and glasscups roll forward, tumblingover therail toshatteron thelightning shield. Evangelineis pulling our box out,bendingitforward,makingustip. The Silvers around mesquawk and scrabble, theirapplause turning to panic.

They’re not the only ones—every box in our rowmoveswith us. Far below,Evangeline directs with ahand, her brow furrowed infocus. Like Silver fighters inthe ring, she wants to showtheworldwhatshe’smadeof.

That is the thought inmyheadas ayellowballof skinandfeatheredclothingknocksintome,pitchingmeovertherail with the rest of the

silverware.All I see is purple as I

fall,thelightningshieldrisingup tomeetme. Ithisseswithelectricity, singeing the air. Ibarely have time tounderstand, but I know theveinedpurpleglasswillcookmealive, electrocutingme inmy red uniform. I bet theSilvers will only care aboutwaiting for someone tocleanmeoff.

My head bangs againsttheshield,andIseestars.No,not stars. Sparks. The shielddoes its job, lighting me upwith bolts of electricity. Myuniform burns, scorched andsmoking, and I expect to seemy skin do the same. Mycorpse will smell wonderful.But, somehow, I don’t feel athing. I must be in so muchpainthatIcannotfeelit.

But—I can feel it. I feel

the heat of the sparks,running up and down mybody, setting every nerve onfire. It isn’t a bad feelingthough. In fact I feel, well,alive. Like I’ve been livingmywhole lifeblindandnowI’ve opened my eyes.Somethingmovesbeneathmyskin,butit’snotthesparks.Ilook at my hands, my arms,marveling at the lightning asitglidesoverme.Clothburns

away, charred black by theheat, but my skin doesn’tchange. The shield keepstryingtokillme,butitcan’t.

Everythingiswrong.Iamalive.The shield gives off a

black smoke, starting tosplinterandcrack.Thesparksare brighter, angrier, butweakening. I try to pushmyself up, to get tomy feet,buttheshieldshattersbeneath

meandIfallagain, tumblingovermyself.

Somehow I manage toland in a pile of dust notcovered by jagged metal.Definitely bruised and weakinthemuscles,butstillinonepiece. My uniform is not solucky,barelyholdingtogetherinacharredmess.

I struggle to my feet,feeling more of my uniformflakeoff.Aboveus,murmurs

and gasps echo through theSpiral Garden. I can feel alleyes on me, the burned Redgirl. The human lightningrod.

Evangeline stares at me,her eyes wide. She looksangry,confused—andscared.

Of me. Somehow, she isscaredofme.

“Hi,”Isaystupidly.Evangeline answers with

aflurryofmetalshards,allof

them sharp and deadly,pointed at my heart as theyripthroughtheair.

Without thinking, I throwupmyhands, hoping to savemyself from the worst of it.Instead of catching a dozenjaggedblades inmypalms, Ifeel something quitedifferent.Likewiththesparksbefore,my nerves sing, alivewithsomeinnerfire.Itmovesin me, behind my eyes,

beneath my skin, until I feelmore than myself. Then itbursts from me, pure powerandenergy.

A jet of light—no,lightning—erupts from myhands, blazing through themetal. The pieces shriek andsmoke, bursting apart in theheat. They fall harmlessly tothe ground as the lightningblasts into the far wall. Itleaves a smoking hole four

feet wide, barely missingEvangeline.

Her mouth falls open inshock. I’m sure I look thesame as I stare atmy hands,wonderingwhatonearth justhappenedtome.Highabove,a hundred of the mostpowerful Silvers wonder thesame thing. I look up to seethemallpeeringatme.

Even the king leans overthe edge of his box, his

flaming crown silhouettedagainst the sky. Cal is rightnext to him, staring down atmewithwideeyes.

“Sentinels.”The king’s voice is sharp

as a razor, full of menace.Suddenly, the red-orangeuniforms of Sentinels blazefrom almost every box. Theelite guards wait for anotherword,anotherorder.

I’magoodthiefbecauseI

know when to run. Now isoneofthosetimes.

Before the king canspeak,Ibolt,pushingpastthestunned Evangeline to slidefeetfirst into the still-openhatchinthefloor.

“Seize her!” echoesbehindme as I drop into thesemidarkness of the chamberbelow. Evangeline’s flyingmetal showpunchedholes intheceiling,andIcanstillsee

upintotheSpiralGarden.Tomy dismay, it looks like thestructure is bleeding, asuniformed Sentinels dropdownfromtheirboxes,allofthemracingafterme.

Withnotimetothink,allIcandoisrun.

The antechamber belowthe arena connects to a darkand empty hallway. Boxyblackcameraswatchmeas Irun at full speed, turning

down another corridor andanother. I can feel them,huntingliketheSentinelsnotso far behind me. Run,repeatsinmyhead.Run,run,run.

I have to find a door, awindow, something to helpmegetmy bearings. If I canget outside, into the marketmaybe, I might have achance.Imight.

The first set of stairs I

find leads up to a longmirrored hall. But thecameras are there as well,sitting in the corners of theceilinglikegreatblackbugs.

A blast of gunfireexplodes over my head,forcing me to drop to thefloor. Two Sentinels, theiruniforms the color of fire,crash through a mirror andcharge at me. They’re justlike Security, I tell myself.

Just bumbling officers whodon’t know you. They don’tknowwhatyoucando.

I don’t know what I cando.

TheyexpectmetorunsoI do the opposite, stormingthe pair of them. Their gunsare big and powerful, butbulky. Before they can getthem up to shoot, stab, orboth, I drop to my knees onthe smooth marble floor,

sliding between the twogiants. One of them shoutsafterme,hisvoiceexplodinganother mirror in a storm ofglass. By the time theymanage to change directions,I’m already off and runningagain.

When I finally find awindow,it’sablessingandacurse.Iskidtoastopinfrontof a giant pane ofdiamondglass, looking out to

thevastforest.It’srightthere,just on the other side, justbeyondanimpenetrablewall.

All right, hands, nowmight be a good time to doyour thing. Nothing happens,of course. Nothing happenswhenIneeditto.

A blaze of heat takesmeby surprise. I turn to see anapproaching wall of red andorange and I know—theSentinelshavefoundme.But

the wall is hot, flickering,almost solid. Fire. Andcomingrightatme.

My voice is faint, weak,defeated, as I laugh at mypredicament.“Oh,great.”

I turn to run but insteadcollide with a broad wall ofblack fabric. Strong armswrap aroundme, holdingmestill when I try to squirmaway. Shock him, light himup, Iscreaminmyhead.But

nothinghappens.Themiracleisn’tgoingtosavemeagain.

The heat grows,threatening to crush the airfrom my lungs. I survivedlightning today; I don’twanttopressmyluckwithfire.

But it’s the smoke that’sgoing to kill me. Thick andblack and much too strong,choking me. My visionswirls, and my eyelids growheavy. I hear footsteps,

shouting, the roar of fire astheworlddarkens.

“I’m sorry,” Cal’s voicesays.IthinkI’mdreaming.

EIGHT

I’montheporch,watchingasMom says good-bye to mybrother Bree. She weeps,holding on to him tightly,smoothing his freshly cuthair. Shade and Tramy waittocatchher ifher legs fail. Iknow they want to cry too,watching their oldest brothergo,but forMom’ssake, they

don’t. Next to me, Dad saysnothing, content to stare atthe legionnaire. Even in hisarmor of steel plate andbulletproof fabric, the soldierlooks small next to mybrother. Bree could eat himalive, but he doesn’t. Hedoesn’t do anything at allwhen the legionnaire grabshis arm, pulling him awayfrom us. A shadow follows,hauntingafterhimonterrible

dark wings. The world spinsaround me, and then I’mfalling.

Ilandayearlater,myfeetstuck in the squelching mudbeneath our house. NowMom holds on to Tramy,beggingwith the legionnaire.Shade has to pull her off.Somewhere, Gisa cries forher favoritebrother.DadandIkeepsilent,savingourtears.Theshadowreturns,thistime

swirling around me, blottingout the sky and the sun. Isqueezemyeyesshut,hopingitwillleavemealone.

When I open themagain,I’minShade’sarms,hugginghim as tightly as I can. Hehasn’tcuthishairyet,andhischin-lengthbrownhairticklesthetopofmyhead.AsIpressmyself to his chest, I wince.My ear stings sharply, and Ipullback,seeingdropsofred

blood on my brother’s shirt.Gisa and I had pierced ourears again, with the tiny giftShade leftus. Iguess Idid itwrong, as I do everythingwrong. This time, I feel theshadowbeforeIseeit.Anditfeelsangry.

It drags me through aparade of memories, all rawwoundsstillhealing.Someofthem are even dreams. No,they are nightmares. My

worstnightmares.Anewworldmaterializes

around me, forming ashadowed landscape ofsmoke and ash. The Choke.I’ve never been there, butI’veheardenoughtoimagineit. The land is flat, pockedwith craters from a thousandfalling bombs. Soldiers instainedreduniformscowerineach of them, like bloodfilling a wound. I float

through them all, searchingthe faces, looking for thebrothers I lost to smoke andshrapnel.

Bree appears first,wrestling with a blue-cladLakelander in a puddle ofmud.Iwanttohelphim,butIkeepfloatinguntilhe’soutofsight. Tramy comes next,bending over a woundedsoldier, trying to keep himfrom bleeding to death. His

gentlefeatures,solikeGisa’s,are twisted in agony. I willnever forget the screams ofpain and frustration.AswithBree,Ican’thelphim.

Shadewaitsatthefrontofthe line, beyond even thebravestofwarriors.Hestandson top of a ridge withoutregard for the bombs or theguns or the Lakelander armywaitingon theother side.Heeven has the gall to smile at

me. I can only watch whenthe ground beneath his feetexplodes,destroyinghiminaplumeoffireandash.

“Stop!” I manage toscream, reaching for thesmoke that was once mybrother.

The ash takes shape, re-forming into the shadow. Itengulfsme in darkness, untila wave of memoriesovertakes me again. Gisa’s

hand. Kilorn’s conscription.Dad coming homehalf-dead.Theyblurtogether,aswirloftoo-brightcolorthathurtsmyeyes.Something is not right.The memories movebackward through the years,like I’m watchingmy life inreverse. And then there areevents I can’t possiblyremember: learning to speak,to walk, my child brotherspassing me between them

while Mom scolds. This isimpossible.

“Impossible,” the shadowsays to me. The voice is sosharp, I fear it might crackmy skull. I fall tomy knees,collidingwithwhat feels likeconcrete.

And then they’re gone.Mybrothers,myparents,mysister, my memories, mynightmares, gone. Concreteandsteelbarsrisearoundme.

Acage.I struggle tomy feet,one

hand on my aching head asthings come into focus. Afigure stares at me frombeyond the bars. A crownglittersonherhead.

“I’dbow,butImightfallover,” I say to Queen Elara,and immediately I wish Icould call back the words.She’saSilver, I can’t talk toher that way. She could put

me in the stocks, take awaymyrations,punishme,punishmy family. No, I realize inmygrowinghorror.She’s thequeen.Shecouldjustkillme.Shecouldkillusall.

But she doesn’t lookoffended.Instead,shesmirks.A wave of nausea washesover me when I meet hereyes,andIdoubleoveragain.

“That lookslikeabowtome,” she purrs, enjoying my

pain.I fight the urge to vomit

andreachouttograbthebars.My fist clenchesaroundcoldsteel.“Whatareyoudoingtome?”

“Not much of anythinganymore. But this—” Shereaches through the bars totouch my temple. The paintriplesbeneathherfinger,andI fall against the bars, barelyconsciousenough toholdon.

“This is to keep you fromdoinganythingsilly.”

Tearsstingmyeyes,butIshakethemaway.“Likestandon my own two feet?” Imanage to spit out. I canhardlythinkthroughthepain,let alone be polite, but still Imanagetoholdbackastreamofcurses.Forheaven’ssake,Mare Barrow, hold yourtongue.

“Like electrocute

something,”shesnaps.Thepainebbs,givingme

enoughstrengthtomakeittothemetal bench.When I restmy head against the coolstonewall,herwordssinkin.Electrocute.

The memory flashesacrossmymind,comingbackin jagged pieces.Evangeline,the lightning shield, thesparks, and me. It’s notpossible.

“YouarenotSilver.YourparentsareRed,youareRed,and your blood is red,” thequeen murmurs, prowlingbefore the bars of my cage.“You are a miracle, MareBarrow, an impossibility.Something even I can’tunderstand, and I have seenallofyou.”

“Thatwasyou?”Ialmostscreech,reachinguptocradlemyheadagain.“Youwerein

mymind?Mymemories?Mynightmares?”

“If you know someone’sfear, you know them.” Sheblinks at me like I’m somestupidcreature.“AndIhadtoknowwhatitiswe’redealingwith.”

“Iamnotanit.”“Whatyouareremainsto

be seen. But be thankful forone thing, little lightninggirl,” she sneers, putting her

face against the bars.Suddenly my legs seize up,losingallfeelinglikeIsatonthem wrong. Like I’mparalyzed. Panic rises in mychestasIrealizeIcan’tevenwigglemytoes.Thismustbehow Dad feels, broken anduseless.ButsomehowIgettomy feet, my legs moving ontheir own, marching metowardthebars.Ontheotherside, the queen watches me.

Herblinksmatchmysteps.She’s a whisper, and

she’splayingwithme.WhenI’m close enough, she grabsmy face in her hands. I cryout as the pain in my headmultiplies.WhatIwouldgivenow for the simple doom ofconscription.

“You did that in front ofhundreds of Silvers, peoplewho will ask questions,people with power,” she

hisses in my ear, her sicklysweet breath washing overmy face. “That is the onlyreasonyouarestillalive.”

My hands clench, and Iwish for the lightning again,but it doesn’t come. Sheknows what I’m doing andlaughs openly. Stars explodebehindmyeyes,cloudingmyvision,but Ihearhergo inaswirl of rustling silk. Mysight returns just in time to

see her dress disappeararound a corner, leaving mewell and truly alone in thecell. Ibarelymake itback tothebench,fightingtheurgetothrowup.

Exhaustion comes overme in waves, starting in mymuscles and sinking intomybones. Iamonlyhuman,andhumans are not supposed todeal with days like today.Withajolt,Irealizemywrist

isbare.Theredbandisgone,taken away.What could thatmean? Tears sting my eyes,threatening to fall, but I willnot cry. I have that muchprideleft.

I can fight the tears butnot the questions. Not thedoubtgrowinginmyheart.

What’shappeningtome?WhatamI?

I open my eyes to see a

Securityofficerstaringatmefrom the other side of thebars.His silver buttons shinein the low light, but they’renothingcomparedtotheglarebouncingoffhisbaldhead.

“You have to tell myfamily where I am,” I blurtout, sitting straight up. Atleast I said I loved them, Iremember, thinking back toourlastmoments.

“I don’t have to do

anything but take youupstairs,” he replies, butwithout much bite. Theofficer is a pillar of calm.“Changeyourclothes.”

Suddenly, I realize I stillhave a half-burned uniformhanging off me. The officerpointsataneatpileofclothesnear the bars. He turns hisback, allowing me somesemblanceofprivacy.

The clothes are plain but

fine,softerthananythingI’veever worn before. A long-sleevedwhite shirt andblackpants,bothofthemdecoratedwith a single silver stripedown each side. There areshoes as well, black oiledboots that rise to my knees.Tomy surprise, there isn’t astitch of red on the clothes.Butwhy, I do not know.Myignorance is becoming atheme.

“All right,” I grumble,fighting the last boot up myleg.Asitslidesintoplace,theofficer turns around. I don’thear the jingle of keys, butthen,Idon’tseea lock.Howheplans to letmeout ofmydoorlesscage,I’mnotsure.

But instead of openingsome hidden gate, his handtwitches, and the metal barsbow open. Of course. Thejailorwouldbea—

“Magnetron,yes,”hesayswith awaggle of his fingers.“And in case you werewondering, the girl younearlyfriedisacousin.”

I almost choke on the airin my lungs, not knowinghow to respond. “I’m sorry.”Itsoundslikeaquestion.

“Be sorry you missedher,”hereplieswithoutahintof jest. “Evangeline is abitch.”

“Familytrait?”Mymouthmoves faster than my brain,and I gasp, realizing whatI’vejustsaid.

He doesn’t strike me forspeaking out of turn, thoughhehaseveryrightto.Instead,the officer’s face twitchesintotheshadowofasmile.“Iguess you’ll find out,” hesays, black eyes soft. “I’mLucasSamos.Followme.”

I don’t have to ask to

know I have no other choiceinthematter.

He leads me out of mycellandupawindingstair,tono less than twelve Securityofficers.Withoutaword,theysurround me in a well-practicedformationandforceme along with them. Lucasstaysbyme,marchingintimewith the others. They keeptheirgunsinhand,asifreadyforbattle.Somethingtellsme

themenaren’theretodefendme but to protect everyoneelse.

Whenwe reach themorebeautiful upper levels, theglass walls are strangelyblack. Tinted, I tell myself,remembering what Gisa saidabouttheHalloftheSun.Thediamondglass can darken oncommand to hide whatshouldn’tbeseen.Obviously,Imustfallintothatcategory.

With a jolt I realize thatthe windows change notbecause of some mechanismbut a red-haired officer. Shewaves a hand at every wallwe pass, and some powerwithin her blocks out thelight, clouding theglasswiththinshade.

“She’sashadow,abenderof light,” Lucas whispers,notingmyawe.

The cameras are here as

well.Myskincrawls, feelingtheir electric gaze runningovermybones.Normallymyhead would ache under theweightofsomuchelectricity,but the pain never comes.Something in the shield haschanged me. Or maybe itreleasedsomething,revealingapartofmyself lockedawayfor so long. What am I?echoes in my head again,morethreateningthanbefore.

Only when we passthrough a monstrous set ofdoors does the electricsensation pass. The eyescannot see me here. Thechamber inside couldencompass my house tentimes, stilts and all. Anddirectly across from me, hisfierygazeburning intomine,is the king, sitting on adiamondglass throne carvedintoaninferno.Behindhim,a

window full of daylightquickly fades to black. Itmight be the last glimpse ofthesunI’lleversee.

Lucas and the otherofficers march me forward,buttheydon’tstaylong.Withnothing but a backwardglance,Lucasleadstheothersout.

The king sits before me,thequeenstandingonhisleft,the princes on his right. I

refuse to look at Cal, but Iknowhemustbegawkingatme. I keep my gaze on mynew boots, focusing on mytoes so I don’t give over tothe fear turning my body tolead.

“You will kneel,” thequeen murmurs, her voicesoftasvelvet.

I should kneel, but mypride won’t let me. Evenhere, in front of Silvers, in

frontoftheking,mykneesdonot bend. “Iwill not,” I say,finding the strength to lookup.

“Do you enjoy your cell,girl?” Tiberias says, hiskinglyvoicefillingtheroom.The threat in his words isplainasday,butstill I stand.He cocks his head, staring atmelikeI’manexperiment topuzzleover.

“What do you want with

me?”Imanagetoforceout.The queen leans down

nexttohim.“Itoldyou,she’sRed through and through—”But the king waves her offlike he would a fly. Shepurses her lips and drawsback, hands clasped tightlytogether.Servesherright.

“What I want concerningyou is impossible,” Tiberiassnaps. His glare smolders,like he’s trying to burn me

up.I remember the queen’s

words. “Well, I’m not sorryyoucan’tkillme.”

Thekingchuckles.“Theydidn’tsayyouwerequick.”

Relief floods throughme.Death does not wait for mehere.Notyet.

The king throws down astack of papers, all of themcovered in writing. The topsheet has the usual

information, including myname,birthdate,parents,andthe little brown smear that ismyblood.Mypictureistheretoo, the one on myidentification card. I staredown at myself, into boredeyessickofwaitinginlinetohavemypicturetaken.HowIwish I could jump into thephoto, into the girl whoseonly problems wereconscription and a hungry

belly.“Mare Molly Barrow,

born November seventeenth,302oftheNewEra,toDanieland Ruth Barrow,” Tiberiasrecites from memory, layingmy life bare. “You have nooccupationandarescheduledforconscriptiononyournextbirthday. You attend schoolsparingly,your academic testscoresare low,andyouhavea list of offenses that would

land you in prison in mostcities. Thievery, smuggling,resistingarrest,tonamebutafew. All together you arepoor, rude, immoral,unintelligent, impoverished,bitter, stubborn, and a blightupon your village and mykingdom.”

The shock of his bluntwordstakesamomenttosinkin, but when it does, I don’targue.He’sentirelyright.

“And yet,” he continues,risingtohisfeet.Thisclose,Ican see his crown is deathlysharp. The points can kill.“Youarealsosomethingelse.Something I cannot fathom.YouareRedandSilverboth,a peculiarity with deadlyconsequences you cannotunderstand. So what am I todowithyou?”

Is he asking me? “Youcould let me go. I wouldn’t

sayaword.”The queen’s sharp

laughter cuts me off. “AndwhatabouttheHighHouses?Willtheykeepsilentaswell?Will they forget the littlelightning girl in a reduniform?”

No.Noonewill.“You know my advice,

Tiberias,”thequeenadds,hereyesontheking.“Anditwillsolvebothourproblems.”

Itmustbebadadvice,badforme,becauseCalclenchesa fist. The movement drawsmy eye, and I finally look athim fully. He remains still,stoic and quiet, as I’m surehe’s been trained to do, butfire burns behind his eyes.For a moment, he meets mygaze,butIlookawaybeforeIcan call out and ask him tosaveme.

“Yes, Elara,” the king

says, nodding at his wife.“We cannot kill you, MareBarrow.”Notyethangsintheair.“Sowearegoing tohideyou in plain sight where wecan watch you, protect you,and attempt to understandyou.”

The way his eyes gleammakes me feel like a mealabouttobedevoured.

“Father!”Thewordburstsfrom Cal, but his brother—

the paler, leaner prince—grabshimbythearm,holdinghim back from protestingfurther. He has a calmingeffect, and Cal steps back inline.

Tiberiasgoeson,ignoringhis son. “You are no longerMareBarrow,aReddaughteroftheStilts.”

“Thenwho am I?” I ask,myvoiceshakingwithdread,thinking of all the awful

thingstheycandotome.“Your father was Ethan

Titanos, general of the IronLegion,killedwhenyouwerean infant. A soldier, a Redman, took you for his ownand raised you in the dirt,never telling you your trueparentage. You grew upbelieving you were nothing,and now, thanks to chance,you are made whole again.You are Silver, a lady of a

lostHighHouse,anoblewithgreat power, and one day, aprincessofNorta.”

Try as I might, I can’thold back a surprised yelp.“ASilver—aprincess?”

Myeyesbetrayme,flyingtoCal.Aprincessmustmarryaprince.

“You will marry my sonMaven, and you’ll do itwithout putting a toe out ofline.”

Iswear Ihearmy jawhitthe floor. A wretched,embarrassing sound escapesmy mouth as I search forsomething to say, but I’mhonestly speechless. In frontof me, the younger princelooks equally confused,sputtering just as loudly as Iwant to.This time, it’sCal’sturn to restrain him, thoughhiseyesareonme.

The young prince

manages to findhisvoice. “Idon’t understand,” he blurtsout, shrugging off Cal. Hetakes quick steps toward hisfather. “She’s—why—?”UsuallyI’dbeoffended,butIhave to agree with theprince’sreservations.

“Quiet,”hismothersnaps.“Youwillobey.”

He glares at her, everyinch the young son rebellingagainst his parents. But his

mother hardens, and theprince backs down, knowingher wrath and power as wellasIdo.

My voice is faint, barelyaudible.“Thisseemsabit...much.” There’s simply nootherwaytodescribeit.“Youdon’t want to make me alady,muchlessaprincess.”

Tiberias’sfacecracksintoagrimsmile.Likethequeen,histeethareblindinglywhite.

“Oh, but I do, my dear. Forthe first time in yourrudimentary little life, youhave a purpose.” The jabfeels like a slap across theface. “Here we are, in theearly stagesof abadly timedrebellion, with terroristgroupsorfreedomfighters,orwhateverthehelltheseidioticRed fools call themselves,blowing things up in thenameofequality.”

“The Scarlet Guard.”Farley.Shade.Assoonasthenamecrossesmymind,IprayQueenElara stays out ofmyhead.“Theybombed—”

“The capital, yes.” Theking shrugs, scratching hisneck.

My years in the shadowshave taughtmemany things.Whocarriesthemostmoney,who won’t notice you, andwhatliarslooklike.Theking

is a liar, I realize, watchingas he forces another shrug.He’s trying to be dismissive,and it’s just not working.SomethinghashimscaredofFarley, of the Scarlet Guard.Somethingmuch bigger thanafewexplosions.

“And you,” he continues,leaning forward. “Youmightbe able to help us stop therefrombeinganymore.”

I’d laugh out loud if I

wasn’t so scared. “Bymarrying—sorry,what’syournameagain?”

His cheeks go white inwhat I assume is the Silverversion of a blush. After all,their blood is silver. “MynameisMaven,”hesays,hisvoicesoftandquiet.LikeCaland his father, his hair isglossy black, but thesimilarities end there. Whilethey are broad and muscled,

Mavenislean,witheyeslikeclearwater.“AndIstilldon’tunderstand.”

“What Father is trying tosay is that she represents anopportunityforus,”Calsays,cutting in to explain. Unlikehis brother, Cal’s voice isstrong and authoritative. It’sthe voice of a king. “If theReds see her, a Silver byblood but Red by nature,raisedupwithus,theycanbe

placated.It’slikeanoldfairytale, a commoner becomingthe princess. She’s theirchampion. They can look toherinsteadofterrorists.”Andthen, softer, but moreimportant than anything else:“She’sadistraction.”

But this isn’t a fairy tale,or even a dream. This is anightmare. I’m being lockedaway for the rest ofmy life,forced into being someone

else. Into being one of them.A puppet. A show to keeppeople happy, quiet, andtrampled.

“And if we get the storyright,theHighHouseswillbesatisfied too. You’re the lostdaughterofawarhero.Whatbetter honor can we giveyou?”

I meet his eyes, silentlypleading.Hehelpedmeonce,maybehecandoitagain.But

Caltipshisheadfromsidetoside,shakinghisheadslowly.Hecan’thelpmehere.

“This isn’t a request,LadyTitanos,”Tiberias says.He uses my new name, mynew title. “You will gothrough with this, and youwilldoitproperly.”

Queen Elara turns herpale eyes on me. “You willlivehere,asisthecustomforroyal brides. Every day will

be scheduled at mydiscretion, and you will betutored in everything andanything possible to makeyou”—she searches for theword, chewing on her lip—“suitable.” I don’twant toknowwhat thatmeans. “Youwillbescrutinized.Fromnowon you live on the edge of aknife. One false step, onewrong word, and you willsufferforit.”

My throat tightens, like Ican feel the chains the kingand queen are wrappingaround me. “What about mylife—?”

“Whatlife?”Elaracrows.“Girl, you have fallen headoverheelsintoamiracle.”

Calsqueezeshiseyesshutforamoment,asifthesoundof the queen’s laughter painshim. “Shemeans her family.Mare—the girl—has a

family.”Gisa, Mom, Dad, the

boys, Kilorn—a life takenaway.

“Oh,that,”thekinghuffs,plopping back down into hischair. “I suppose we’ll givethem an allowance, keepthemquiet.”

“I want my brothersbroughthomefromthewar.”Foronce,IfeellikeI’vesaidsomething right. “And my

friend, KilornWarren. Don’tlet the legions take himeither.”

Tiberias responds in halfa heartbeat. A few Redsoldiersmeannothingtohim.“Done.”

It sounds less like apardonandmorelikeadeathsentence.

NINE

Lady Mareena Titanos, bornto Lady Nora Nolle Titanosand Lord Ethan Titanos,general of the Iron Legion.Heiress to House Titanos.MareenaTitanos.Titanos.

My new name echoes inmy head as the Red maidsprepare me for the comingonslaught. The three girls

work quickly and efficiently,never speaking to oneanother. They don’t ask mequestionseither, even thoughthey must want to. Saynothing,Iremember.They’renot allowed to speak to me,and they certainly aren’tallowed to talk about me toanyoneelse.Eventhestrangethings, the Red things, I’msuretheysee.

Over many agonizing

minutes,theytrytomakemesuitable, bathing me, stylingme,paintingmeintothesillythingI’msupposedtobe.Themakeup is the worst,especially the thick whitepaste applied to my skin.Theygothroughthreepotsofit, covering my face, neck,collarbone,andarmswiththeglittery wet powder. In themirror, it looks like thewarmth is leeched from me,

as if the powder has coveredthe heat in my skin. With agasp, I realize it’s supposedto hidemy natural flush, theredbloominmyskin,theredblood. I’m pretending to beSilver, and when they finishpainting my face, I actuallylookthepart.Withmynewlypale skin and darkened eyesand lips, I lookcold,cruel, aliving razor. I look Silver. Ilookbeautiful.AndIhateit.

How long will this last?Betrothed to a prince. Evenin my head, it sounds crazy.Because it is. No Silver intheirrightmindwouldmarryyou, let alone a prince ofNorta.Not tocalmrebellion,not to hide your identity, notforanything.

Thenwhydothis?When the maids pinch

and pull me into a gown, Ifeel like a corpse being

dressed for her funeral. Iknow it’s not far from thetruth.Redgirls do notmarrySilver princes. I will neverwear a crown or sit on athrone. Something willhappen, an accident maybe.A lie will raise me up, andonedayanotherliewillbringmedown.

Thedress isadarkshadeof purple spattered withsilver,madeofsilkandsheer

lace.Allhouseshaveacolor,I remember, thinkingback tothe rainbow of families. Thecolors of Titanos, my name,mustbepurpleandsilver.

When one of the maidsreaches for my earrings,trying to take away the lastbit ofmyold life, a surgeoffear pulses through me.“Don’ttouchthem!”

The girl jumps back,blinking quickly, and the

othersfreezeatmyoutburst.“Sorry, I—” A Silver

wouldn’t apologize. I clearmy throat, collecting myself.“Leave the earrings.” Myvoice sounds strong, hard—regal. “You can changeeverythingelse,but leave theearrings.”

Thethreecheappiecesofmetal, each one a brother,aren’tgoinganywhere.

“Thecolorsuitsyou.”

I whirl around to see themaids stooped in identicalbows. And standing overthem: Cal. Suddenly, I’mvery glad themakeup coverstheblushspreadingoverme.

He gestures quickly, hishand moving in a brushingmotion, and themaids scurryfrom the room like micefleeingfromacat.

“I’m sort of new to thisroyal thing, but I’m not sure

you’re supposed to be here.Inmyroom,”Isay,forcingasmuch disdain into my voiceasIcanmuster.Afterall,it’shis fault I’m in this forsakenmess.

He takes a few stepstowardme, andon instinct, Itake a step back. My feetcatchonthehemofmydress,making me choose betweennotmoving or falling over. Idon’t know which is less

desirable.“I came to apologize,

something I can’t really dowith an audience.” He stopsshort, noting my discomfort.A muscle twitches in hischeek as he looks me over,probably remembering thehopeless girl who tried topickpocket him only lastnight. I looknothing likehernow. “I’m sorry for gettingyouintothis,Mare.”

“Mareena.” The nameeven tastes wrong. “That’smyname,remember?”

“Then it’s a good thingMare’sasuitablenickname.”

“I don’t think anythingaboutmeissuitable.”

Cal’s eyes rake over me,andmy skin burns under hisgaze. “How do you likeLucas?” he finally says,takinganobligingstepback.

TheSamosguard,thefirst

decent Silver I’ve met here.“He’s all right, I suppose.”Perhaps the queen will takehim away if I reveal howgentletheofficerwastome.

“Lucasisagoodman.Hisfamily thinks him weak forhis kindness,” he adds, eyesdarkening a little. As if heknows the feeling. “But he’llserveyouwell,andfairly.I’llmakesureofit.”

How thoughtful. He’s

givenme a kind jailer. But Ibite my tongue. It won’t doany good to snap at hismercy. “Thank you, YourHighness.”

The spark returns to hiseyes, and a smirk to his lips.“YouknowmynameisCal.”

“Andyouknowmyname,don’tyou?”Itellhimbitterly.“You know what I comefrom.”

He barely nods, as if

ashamed.“Youhavetotakecareof

them.”Myfamily.Theirfacesswimbeforemyeyes,alreadysofaraway.“Allofthem,foraslongasyoucan.”

“Of course I will.” Hetakes a step toward me,closing the gap between us.“I’m sorry,” he says again.The words resound in myhead,echoingoffamemory.

The wall of fire. The

chokingsmoke.I’msorry,I’msorry,I’msorry.

ItwasCalwhocaughtmeearlier, who kept me fromescapingthisawfulplace.

“Are you sorry forstopping my one chance ofescape?”

“Youmeanifyougotpastthe Sentinels, Security, thewalls, the woods, back toyour village towait until thequeen herself hunted you

down?”hereplies, takingmyaccusations in stride.“Stopping you was the bestthing for you and yourfamily.”

“I could’ve gotten away.Youdon’tknowme.”

“Iknow thequeenwouldtear the world apart lookingforthelittlelightninggirl.”

“Don’tcallme that.”Thenickname stings more thanthefakenameI’mstillgetting

used to. Little lightning girl.“That’s what your mothercallsme.”

Helaughsbitterly.“She’snot my mother. She’sMaven’s, not mine.” Just bythesetofhisjaw,Iknownottopresstheissue.

“Oh,”isallIcansay,myvoice very small. It fadesquickly, a faint echo againstthe vaulted ceiling. I cranemy neck, looking around at

my new room for the firsttimesinceIcamein.It’sfinerthan anything I’ve ever seen—marble and glass, silk andfeathers. The light haschanged, shifting to theorangecolorofdusk.Nightiscoming.Andwith it, the restofmylife.

“I woke up this morningas one person,” I mutter,more to myself than to him,“andnowI’msupposedtobe

someoneelseentirely.”“You can do this.” I feel

him take a step toward me,his heat filling the room in away that makes my skinprickle.ButIdon’tlookup.Iwon’t.

“Howdoyouknow?”“Because you must.” He

bites his lip, eyes shiftingoverme.“Asbeautifulasthisworld is, it’s just asdangerous. People who are

not useful, peoplewhomakemistakes, they can beremoved. You can beremoved.”

And I will be. Someday.ButthatisnottheonlythreatIface.“SothemomentImessupcouldbemylast?”

He doesn’t speak, but Ican see the answer in hiseyes.Yes.

Myfingersfiddlewiththesilver belt at my waist,

pulling it tight. If this was adream,Iwouldwakeup,butIdon’t. This is reallyhappening. “What aboutme?About”—I hold out myhands, glaring at the infernalthings—“this?”

Inresponse,Calsmiles.“Ithink you’ll get the hang ofit.”

Thenheholdsuphisownbare hand. A strangecontraption at his wrist,

somethinglikeabraceletwithtwo metal ends, clicks,producing sparks. Instead ofdisappearing in a flash, thesparksglowandburstintoredflame, giving off a blast ofheat. He’s a burner, hecontrols heat and fire, Iremember.He’saprince,andadangerousoneat that. Butthe flame disappears asquickly as it came, leavingonlyCal’s encouraging smile

and thehummingofcamerashidden somewhere, watchingovereverything.

Themasked Sentinels on theedge of my vision are aconstantreminderofmynewposition. I’m nearly aprincess, engaged to thesecondmosteligiblebachelorinthecountry.AndI’malie.Cal is long gone, leavingmewith my guards. Lucas isn’t

so bad, but the others aresternandquiet,neverlookingmeintheeye.Theguardsandeven Lucas are wardens tokeep me imprisoned in myownskin, redbehinda silvercurtain that can never bepulledaway.IfIfall,ifIevenslip, I will die. And otherswilldieformyfailure.

Astheyescortmetowardthe feast, I go over the storythequeendrilledintome,the

pretty tale she was going totellthecourt.It’ssimple,easyto remember, but it stillmakesmecringe.

I was born at the warfront.Myparentswerekilledin an attack on the camp. ARed soldier saved me fromthe rubble and brought mehome to a wife who alwayswanted a daughter. TheyraisedmeinthevillagecalledtheStilts,andIwas ignorant

ofmybirthrightormyabilityuntilthismorning.AndnowIam returned to my rightfulplace.

The thought makes mesick. My rightful place is athome, with my parents andGisaandKilorn.Nothere.

The Sentinels lead theway through the maze ofpassages in the upper levelsof thepalace.Like theSpiralGarden,thearchitectureisall

curves of stone, glass, andmetal, slowly turningdownward. Diamondglass isaroundeverycorner,showingbreathtaking views of themarketplace, the river valley,and thewoodsbeyond.Fromthis height, I can see hills Ididn’t know existed rising inthe distance, silhouettedagainstthesettingsun.

“The last two floors areroyal apartments,” Lucas

says,pointingupthesloping,spiraling hallway. Sunlightglitters like a firestorm,throwing speckles of lightdown on us. “The lift willtakeusdowntotheballroom.Justhere.”Lucasreachesout,stoppingnexttoametalwall.Itreflectsusdully,thenslidesawaywhenhewavesahand.

The Sentinels usher usinto a box with no windowsand harsh lighting. I force

myself to breathe, eventhough I’d ratherpushoutofwhat feels like a giant metalcoffin.

I jump a mile when thelift suddenly moves, makingmy pulse race. My breathcomesinshortgaspsasIlookaround in wide-eyed fright,expecting to see the othersreactinginthesameway.Butnooneelseseemstomindthefact that the box we’re in is

dropping.OnlyLucasnoticesmy discomfort, and he slowsourdescentalittle.

“The lift moves up anddown, so we don’t have towalk. This place is very big,Lady Titanos,” he murmurswiththeghostofasmile.

I’m torn betweenwonderand fear as we drop, and Ibreathe a sigh of reliefwhenLucas opens the lift doors.We march out into the

mirrored hall I ran throughthis morning. The brokenmirrors are already fixed—itlooks like nothing everhappened.

When Queen Elaraappears around the corner,her own Sentinels in tow,Lucas sweeps into a bow.Nowshewearsblackandredand silver, her husband’scolors. With her blond hairand pale skin, she looks

downrightghoulish.Shegrabsmebythearm,

pullingmetoheraswewalk.Her lips don’t move, but Ihear her voice all the same,echoing in my head. Thistime it doesn’t hurt or makeme nauseous, but thesensation still feels sick andwrong. I want to scream, toclawheroutofmyhead.Butthere’s nothing I can doexcepthateher.

The Titanos family wereoblivions, shesays,hervoiceall around. They couldexplode things with a touch,like the Lerolan girl did atQueenstrial. When I try toremember the girl, Elaraprojects an image of herdirectly into my brain. Itflashes, barely there, but stillI see a young girl in orangeblow up rock and sand likemilitarybombs.Yourmother,

NoraNolle,wasa storm likethe rest of House Nolle.Storms control the weather,toanextent.It’snotcommon,but their union resulted inyour unique abilities tocontrol electricity. Say nomore,ifanyoneasks.

What do you really wantwith me? Even in my head,myvoicequivers.

Her laughter bouncesinside my skull, the only

answerI’llget.Remember the person

you’re supposed to be, andremember well, shecontinues, ignoring myquestion.You are pretendingto be raised Red, but you’reSilverbyblood.YouarenowRedinthehead,Silverintheheart.

A shiver of fear shootsthroughme.

Fromnowuntiltheendof

yourdays,youmustlie.Yourlife depends on it, littlelightninggirl.

TEN

Elara leaves me standing inthehallway,mullingoverherwords.

I used to think there wasonly the divide, Silver andRed,richandpoor,kingsandslaves. But there’s muchmore in between, things Idon’t understand, and I’mright in the middle of it. I

grew up wondering if I’dhave food for supper; nowI’mstandinginapalaceabouttobeeatenalive.

Redinthehead,Silver inthe heart sticks with me,guidingmymotions.Myeyesstaywide,takinginthegrandpalace both Mare andMareena had never dreamedof,butmymouthpressesintoa firm line. Mareena isimpressed, but she keeps her

emotions in check. She iscoldandunfeeling.

The doors at the end ofthe hall open, revealing thebiggest room I’ve ever seen,bigger even than the throneroom. I don’t think I’ll everget used to the sheer size ofthis place. I step through thedoors onto a landing. Stairsleaddowntothefloor,whereevery house sits in coolexpectation, their eyes

forward.Again, they keep totheir colors. A few mutteramong themselves, probablytalkingaboutmeandmylittleshow. King Tiberias andElara stand on a raisedsurfaceafewfeethigherthanthefloor,facingthecrowdoftheir subjects. They nevermiss an opportunity to lordovertheothers.Eitherthey’revery vain or very aware. Tolook powerful is to be

powerful.The princes match their

parents in different outfits ofredandblack,bothdecoratedwith military medals. Calstandstohisfather’sright,hisfacestillandimpassive.Ifheknows who he’s going tomarry,hedoesn’t lookhappyabout it. Maven’s there too,onhismother’sleft,hisfaceastormcloudofemotions.Theyounger brother is not as

good as Cal at hiding hisfeelings.

At least I won’t have todealwithagoodliar.

“The right of Queenstrialis always a joyous event,representingthefutureofourgreatkingdomand thebondsthatkeepusstronglyunitedinthe faceofour enemies,” theking says, addressing thecrowd. They don’t see meyet, standing on the edge of

the room, looking down onthem all. “But as you sawtoday, Queenstrial hasbrought forth more than justthefuturequeen.”

He turns to Elara, whoclasps the king’s hand in herownwithadutifulsmile.Hershift from devilish villain toblushingqueenisastounding.“Weall rememberourbrighthope against the darkness ofwar, our captain, our friend,

the General Ethan Titanos,”Elarasays.

People murmur over theroom,infondnessorsadness.Even the Samos patriarch,Evangeline’s cruel father,bows his head. “He led theIron Legion to victory,pushingbackthelinesofwarthat had stood for nearly ahundred years. TheLakelanders feared him; oursoldiers loved him.” I

strongly doubt a single Redsoldier loved their Silvergeneral. “Lakelander spieskilled our beloved friendEthan, sneaking across thelines todestroyouronehopeforpeace.Hiswife, theLadyNora,agoodandjustwoman,diedwithhim.Onthatfatefulday sixteenyears ago,HouseTitanos was lost. Friendswere taken from us. Ourbloodwasspilled.”

Silence settles on theroom as the queen pauses todabathereyes,wipingawaywhat I knoware fake, forcedtears. A few of the girls,participants in Queenstrial,fidget in their seats. Theydon’t care about a deadgeneral, and neither does thequeen, not really. This isabout me, about somehowslipping a Red girl into acrown without anyone

noticing. It’s a magic trick,and the queen is a skilledmagician.

Hereyesfindme,blazinguptomyspotatthetopofthestairs, and everyone followsher gaze. Some lookconfused, while othersrecognize me from thismorning. And a few stare atmy dress. They know thecolors of House Titanosbetter than I do and

understand who I am. Or atleast who I’m pretending tobe.

“This morning we saw amiracle. We watched a Redgirl fall into the arena like abolt of lightning, wieldingpower she should not have.”More murmurs rise, and afew Silvers even stand. TheSamosgirl looks furious, herblackeyesfixedonme.

“The king and I

interviewed the girlextensively, trying todiscover how she came tobe.”Interviewisafunnywayto describe scrambling mybrain.“Sheisn’tRed,butsheis still amiracle.My friends,please welcome back to usLady Mareena Titanos,daughter of Ethan Titanos.Lostandnowfound.”

Withatwitchofherhand,she beckons me closer. I

obey.I descend the stairs to

stilted applause, morefocused on not tripping. Butmy feet are sure, my facestill, as I plunge towardhundredsoffaceswondering,staring,suspecting.Lucasandmy guards don’t follow,staying on the landing. I’maloneinfrontofthesepeopleonce again, and I’ve neverfelt so bare, even with the

layers of silk and powder.Again,I’mgratefulforallthemakeup. It’s my shield,betweenthemandthetruthofwho I am. A truth I don’tevenunderstand.

The queen gestures to anopen seat in the front rowofthe crowd, and I make myway to it. The Queenstrialgirls watch me, wonderingwhyI’mhereandwhyI’msoimportantallofasudden.But

they’re only curious, notangry. They look atmewithpity,empathizingasbesttheycanwithmysadstory.ExceptEvangeline Samos. When Ifinally get to my seat, she’ssitting right next to it, hereyesglaring intomine.Goneare her leather clothes andiron studs; now she wears adress of interlocked metalrings. From the way herfingers tighten, I can tell she

wants nothing more than towrap her hands around mythroat.

“Saved from her parents’fate,LadyMareenawastakenfromthefrontandbroughttoa Red village not ten milesfrom here,” the kingcontinues, taking over so hecantellthegrandtwistinmytale. “RaisedbyRedparents,sheworkedasaRedservant.And until this morning, she

believed she was one ofthem.” The accompanyinggasp makes my teeth grind.“Mareena was a diamond inthe rough, working in myown palace, the daughter ofmylatefriendundermynose.Butnomore.Toatoneformyignorance, and to repay herfatherandherhousefor theirgreat contributions to thekingdom,Iwouldliketotakethismoment to announce the

joining of House Calore andthe resurrected HouseTitanos.”

Another gasp, this onefrom thegirlsofQueenstrial.They think I’m taking Calaway from them. They thinkI’m their competition. I raisemy eyes to the king, quietlypleading for him to continuebefore one of the girlsmurdersme.

I can almost feel

Evangeline’s cold metalcutting into me. Her fingerslacetogethertightly,knuckleswhite as she resists the urgeto skin me in front ofeveryone. On her other side,her brooding father puts ahandonherarmtostillher.

When Maven stepsforward, the tension in theroom deflates. He stuttersbriefly, tripping over thewords he’s been taught, but

he finds his voice. “LadyMareena.”

Trying my best not toshake, I rise to my feet andfacehim.

“In the eyes of my royalfather and the noble court, Iwould ask for your hand inmarriage. I pledge myself toyou, Mareena Titanos. Willyouaccept?”

My heart pounds as hespeaks. Though his words

soundlikeaquestion,IknowI have no choice in myanswer.NomatterhowmuchIwanttolookaway,myeyesstay onMaven.He givesmethe smallest of encouragingsmiles. I wonder to myselfwhich girl would’ve beenchosenforhim.

Who would I havechosen? If none of this hadhappened, if Kilorn’s masternever died, if Gisa’s hand

was never broken, if nothingever changed. If. It’s theworstwordintheworld.

Conscription. Survival.Green-eyed childrenwithmyquick feet and Kilorn’s lastname.Thatfuturewasalmostimpossible before; now it’snonexistent.

“I pledge myself to you,Maven Calore,” I say,hammering the lastnails intomycoffin.Myvoicequivers,

butIdon’tstop.“Iaccept.”It carries such finality,

slamming a door on the restof my life. I feel likecollapsing but somehowmanage to sit back downgracefully.

Maven slinks back to hisseat,grateful tobeoutof thespotlight. His mother patshim on the arm inreassurance. She smilessoftly, just for him. Even

Silvers love their children.But she turns cold again asCal stands, her smiledisappearinginaheartbeat.

Theairseemstogooutofthe room as every girlinhales, waiting for hisdecision.IdoubtCalhadanysay in choosing a queen, buthe plays his part well, justlike Maven, just like I’mtrying to do. He smilesbrightly, flashing even white

teeth that make a few girlssigh, but his warm eyes areterriblysolemn.

“I am my father’s heir,born to privilege and powerand strength. You owe meyourallegiance,justasIoweyoumy life. It ismyduty toserveyouandmykingdomasbest I can—and beyond.”He’s rehearsed his speech,but the fervor Cal has can’tbe faked. He believes in

himself, that he’ll be a goodking—ordietrying.“Ineedaqueenwhowill sacrifice justasmuchasIwill,tomaintainorder,justice,andbalance.”

TheQueenstrialgirlsleanforward, eager to hear hisnext words. But Evangelinedoesn’t move, an obscenesmirk twisting her face.House Samos looks equallycalm. Her brother, Ptolemus,even stifles a yawn. They

knowwhohasbeenchosen.“LadyEvangeline.”There’s no gasp of

surprise, no shock orexcitement from her. Eventheothergirls,heartbrokenasthey are, sit back with onlydejected shrugs. Everyonesaw thiscoming. I rememberthe fat family back in theSpiral Garden, complainingthat Evangeline Samos hadalreadywon.Theywereright.

With a fluid, cold grace,Evangeline rises to her feet.She barely looks at Cal,instead turning over hershoulder to sneer at thecrestfallengirls.Shebasks inhermomentofglory.Asmileghostsoverherfacewhenhereyes fallonme. Idon’tmisstheferalflashofteeth.

When she turns backaround, Cal echoes hisbrother’s proposal. “In the

eyes of my royal father andthe noble court, I would askfor your hand in marriage. Ipledge myself to you,Evangeline Samos. Will youaccept?”

“I pledge myself to you,PrinceTiberias,”shesaysinavoice that is oddly high andbreathy, contrasting with herhardappearance.“Iaccept.”

With a triumphant smirk,Evangeline sits back down

and Cal retreats to his ownseat. He keeps a smile fixedinplacelikeapieceofarmor,but she doesn’t seem tonotice.

Then I feel a hand findmy arm, nails biting intomyskin. I fight theurge to jumpout of my chair. Evangelinedoesn’t react, still staringstraight ahead at the placethat will one day be hers. IfthisweretheStilts,I’dknock

a few of her teeth out. Herfingers dig intome, down totheflesh. Ifshedrawsblood,redblood,ourlittlegamewillbe over before it even has achance to begin. But shestops short of breaking skin,leavingbruisesthemaidswillhavetohide.

“Get in my way and I’llkill you slowly, littlelightning girl,” she muttersthrough her smile. Little

lightning girl. The nicknameisreallystartingtogetonmynerves.

To cement her point, thesmoothmetalbraceletonherwrist shifts, turning into acircle of sharp thorns. Eachtip glistens, begging to spillblood. I swallowhard, tryingnot tomove. But she lets goquickly,returningherhandtoherlap.Onceagain,she’sthepicture of a demure Silver

girl. If there was ever aperson begging for an elbowto the face, it is EvangelineSamos.

Aquickglancearoundtheroom tells me the court hasturned sullen. Some girlshave tears in their eyes andthrow wolfish glares atEvangeline and even me.Theyprobablywaitedforthisdayalltheirlives,onlytofail.I want to hand my betrothal

over, togiveawaywhat theysodesperatelywant,butno.Imust look happy. I mustpretend.

“Aswonderfulandhappyas today has been,” KingTiberias says, ignoring thesentiment in the room, “Imust remind you why thischoice has been made. ThemightofHouseSamosjoinedwith my son, and all hischildren to follow, will help

guide our nation. You allknow the precarious state ofourkingdom,withwarinthenorth and foolish extremists,enemies to our way of life,attemptingtodestroyusfromwithin. The Scarlet Guardmight seem small andinsignificant to us, but theyrepresentadangerousturnforourRedbrothers.”Morethana few people in the crowdscoff at the term brothers,

myselfincluded.Small and insignificant.

Thenwhy do they needme?Why use me, if the ScarletGuard is nothing to them?The king is a liar. But whathe’s trying to hide, I’m stillnot sure. It could be theGuard’s strength. It could beme.

It’sprobablyboth.“Should this rebellious

streak take hold,” he

continues, “it will end inbloodshed and a dividednation, something I cannotbear. We must maintain thebalance. Evangeline andMareenawillhelpdothat,forthesakeofusall.”

Murmurs go through thecrowd at the king’s words.Some nod, others look crossattheQueenstrialchoices,butno one voices their dissent.No one speaks up. No one

wouldlisteniftheydid.Smiling, King Tiberias

bows his head. He has won,and he knows it. “Strengthand power,” he repeats. Themotto echoes out from him,as every person says thewords.

The words trip over mytongue, feelingforeign inmymouth. Cal stares down atme,watchingmechantalongwith all the others. In that

moment,Ihatemyself.“Strengthandpower.”

I suffer through the feast,watching but not seeing,hearing but not listening.Even the food, more foodthan I’ve ever seen, tastesplain in my mouth. I shouldbestuffingmyface,enjoyingwhat’sprobablythebestmealofmylife,butIcan’t.Ican’teven speak when Maven

murmurs to me, his voicecalmandlevelinassurance.

“You’re doing fine,” hesays, but I try to ignorehim.Likehisbrother,hewearsthesame metal bracelet, theflamemaker. It’s a firmreminder of exactlywho andwhat Maven is—powerful,dangerous,aburner,aSilver.

Sittingata tablemadeofcrystal, drinking bubbly goldliquid until my head spins, I

feel like a traitor.What aremy parents eating for dinnertonight? Do they even knowwhere I am? Or is Momsitting on the porch, waitingformetocomehome?

Instead, I’m stuck in aroom full of people whowould kill me if they knewthe truth. And the royals ofcourse,whowouldkillme iftheycould,whoprobablywillkill me one day. They’ve

pulled me inside out,swappingMare forMareena,a thief for a crown, rags forsilk, Red for Silver. Thismorning I was a servant,tonight I’m a princess. Howmuch more will change?WhatelsewillIlose?

“That’s enough of that,”Maven says, his voiceswimming through thedinofthe feast. He pulls away myfancygoblet,replacingitwith

aglassofwater.“I likedthatdrink.”ButI

gulpdownthewatergreedily,feelingmyheadclear.

Maven just shrugs.“You’llthankmelater.”

“Thank you,” I snap assnidely as possible. I haven’tforgotten the way he lookedatmethismorning,likeIwassomething on the bottom ofhisshoe.Butnowhisgazeissofter, calmer, more like

Cal’s.“I’m sorry about earlier

today,Mareena.”My name is Mare. “I’m

sure you are,” comes outinstead.

“Really,”hesays,leaningtowardme.We’reseatedsideby side, with the rest of theroyals,at thehightable.“It’sjust—usuallyyoungerprincesgettochoose.Oneofthefewperks of not being the heir,”

headdswithaterriblyforcedsmile.

Oh. “I didn’t know that,”I reply, not really knowingwhat to say. I should feelsorry for him, but I can’tbringmyself to feelanykindofpityforaprince.

“Yeah, well, youwouldn’t.It’snotyourfault.”

He looks back to thefeastinghall,castinghisgazeout like a fishing line. I

wonder what face he’slooking for. “Is she here?” Imurmur, trying to soundapologetic. “The girl youwouldhavechosen?”

He hesitates, then shakeshis head. “No, I didn’t haveanyone in mind. But it wasnice to have the option of achoice,youknow?”

No, I don’t know. I don’thavetheluxuryofchoice.Notnow,notever.

“Not likemy brother.Hegrew up knowing he’d neverhave a say in his future. IguessnowI’mgettingatasteofwhathefeels.”

“You and your brotherhave everything, PrinceMaven,”Iwhisper inavoiceso fervent it might be aprayer.“Youliveinapalace,you have strength, you havepower. You wouldn’t knowhardship if it kicked you in

the teeth, and believe me, itdoesthatalot.SoexcusemeifIdon’tfeelsorryforeitherofyou.”

There I go, letting mymouth run away with mybrain. As I recover, drinkingdown the restof thewater inanattempttocoolmytemper,Maven just stares at me, hiseyescold.Butthewalloficerecedes, melting as his gazesoftens.

“You’re right, Mare. Nooneshouldfeelsorryforme.”Icanhearthebitternessinhisvoice.Witha shiver, Iwatchhim throw a glance at Cal.His older brother beams likethe sun, laughing with theirfather. When Maven turnsback around, he forcesanother smile, but there’s asurprisingsadnessinhiseyes.

Asmuch as I try, I can’tignore thesudden joltofpity

Ifeelfortheforgottenprince.But it passes when IrememberwhoheisandwhoIam.

I’maRedgirl inaseaofSilvers, and I can’t afford tofeelsorryforanyone,leastofallthesonofasnake.

ELEVEN

The crowd toasts at the endof the feast, their glassesraised to the royal table. Ontheygo, lordsand ladies inarainbow of color trying towiggle their way into favor.I’ll have to learn them allsoon,matchingcolortohouseand house to people. Mavenwhisperstheirnamestomein

turn, even though I won’trememberthemtomorrow.Atfirst it’sannoying,butsoonIfindmyselfleaningintohearthenames.

LordSamos is the last tostand, and when he does, ahush falls. This mancommands respect, evenamong titans. Though hisblack robes are plain,trimmedwithsimplesilk,andhe has no great jewels or

badgestospeakof,hehastheundeniable air of power. Idon’t needMaven to tell mehe’s the highest of the HighHouses,apersontobefearedaboveallothers.

“Volo Samos,” Mavenmurmurs. “Head of HouseSamos.Heownsandoperatesthe ironmines. Every gun inthewarcomesfromhisland.”

So he’s not just a noble.His importance comes from

morethanjusttitles.Volo’s toast is short and

to the point. “To mydaughter,” he rumbles, hisvoicelow,steady,andstrong.“Thefuturequeen.”

“To Evangeline!”Ptolemus shouts, jumping tohisfeetnexttohisfather.Hiseyes blaze around the room,daring someone to opposethem.A few lords and ladieslook annoyed, angry even,

but theyraise theircupswiththe rest, saluting the newprincess.Theirglassesreflectthelight,eachonea tinystarinthehandofagod.

When he finishes, QueenElara andKingTiberias rise,both of them smiling at theirmany guests. Cal gets up aswell, then Evangeline, thenMaven, and after one dumbmoment, I join them. Themany houses do the same at

their tables, and the scrapingof chairs on marble soundslike nails on a stone.Thankfully, the king andqueen simply bow and walkdown the short set of stepsleading away from our hightable. It’s over. I’ve made itthroughmyfirstnight.

Cal takes Evangeline’shandandleadsherafterthem,withMavenandmebringingup the rear. When Maven

takes my hand, his skin isshockinglycold.

The Silvers press in onboth sides, watching us passin heavy silence. Their facesare curious, cunning, cruel—and behind every false smileis a reminder; they arewatching.Everyeyescrapingover me, looking for cracksand imperfections,makesmesquirm,butIcannotbreak.

I cannot slip. Not now,

not ever. I’m one of them.I’m special. I’m an accident.I’malie.Andmylifedependsonmaintainingtheillusion.

Maven tightens hisfingers in mine, willing meonward. “It’s almost over,”hewhispersaswenearthefarend of the hall. “Almostthere.”

The feeling of beingsmotheredpassesasweleavethe feast behind, but the

cameras follow us withheavy, electric eyes. Themore I think about it, thestronger their gaze becomes,until I can sense where thecameras are before I seethem. Maybe this is a sideeffect of my “condition.”Maybe I’ve just never beensurrounded by this muchelectricity before, and this ishow everyone feels. OrmaybeI’mjustafreak.

Backinthepassageway,agroup of Sentinels waits toescort us upstairs. But then,what threats could therepossibly be to these people?Cal, Maven, and KingTiberias can control fire.Elara can control minds.Whatcouldtheyfear?

We will rise, Red as thedawn. Farley’s voice, mybrother’swords, the creed ofthe Scarlet Guard, comes

backtome.Theyattackedthecapital already; this couldeven be their next target. Icould be a target. Farleycould hold me up in anotherhijacked broadcast, revealingmetotheworldinanattemptto undermine the Silvers.“Look at their lies, look atthis lie,” she would say,pushing my face into thecamera, bleeding me red foralltheworldtosee.

Crazier and crazierthoughts come tomind, eachone more frightening andoutlandish than the last.Thisplace is making me insaneafterjustoneday.

“That went well,” Elarasays, snatching her handawayfromthekingwhenwereachtheresidencefloors.Hedoesn’t seem to mind in theleast. “Take the girls to theirrooms.”

She doesn’t direct hercommand at anyone inparticular, but four Sentinelsbreak off from the group.Theireyesglitterbehindtheirblackmasks.

“I can do it,” Cal andMaven say in unison. Theyglanceateachother,startled.

Elara raises one perfecteyebrow. “That would beinappropriate.”

“I’ll escort Mareena,

Maveycan takeEvangeline,”Cal offers quickly, andMaven purses his lips at thenickname. Mavey. ProbablywhatCalcalledhimasaboyand now it’s stuck, theemblemofayoungerbrother,always in shadow, alwayssecond.

The king shrugs. “Letthem,Elara.Thegirlsneedagood night of sleep, andSentinelswouldgiveanylady

bad dreams.” He chuckles,tossing a playful nod at theguards. They don’t respond,silent as stone. I don’t knowif they’re allowed to talk atall.

After a moment of tensesilence, the queen turns onher heel. “Very well.” Likeany wife, she hates herhusband for challenging her,andlikeanyqueen,shehatesthepowerthekingholdsover

her.Abadcombination.“To bed,” the king says,

his voice a bit more forcefuland authoritative. TheSentinels stay with him,following when he goes theoppositewayfromhiswife.Iguess they don’t sleep in thesame room, but that’s notmuchofashock.

“My room is where,exactly?” Evangeline asks,glaring at Maven. The

blushingqueen-to-beisgone,replaced by the sharp she-devilIrecognize.

He gulps at the sight ofher. “Uh, this way, miss—ma’am—my lady.” He holdsout an arm to her, but shebreezes right by him. “Goodnight,Cal,Mareena,”Mavensighs, making a point oflookingatme.

I can only nod at theretreating prince. My

betrothed.Thethoughtmakesme want to be sick. Eventhoughheseemedpolite,niceeven, he’s Silver. And he’sElara’s son, which might beeven worse. His smiles andkind words cannot hide thatfrom me. Cal’s just as bad,raised to rule, to perpetuatethis world of division evenfurther.

He watches Evangelinedisappear, his eyes lingering

on her retreating form in away thatmakesmestrangelyannoyed.

“You picked a realwinner,” I mutter once she’soutofearshot.

Cal’s smile dies with adownward twitch, and hestarts walking toward myroom, ascending the slopingspiral.My little legs fight tokeepupwithhislongstrides,buthedoesn’tseemtonotice,

lostinthought.Finally he turns, his eyes

like hot coals. “I didn’t pickanything. Everyone knowsthat.”

“At least you knew thiswas coming. I woke up thismorninganddidn’tevenhavea boyfriend.” Cal winces atmywords,but Idon’tcare. Ican’t handle his self-pity.“And, you know, there’s the‘you’re going to be king’

thing.Thatmustbeaboost.”He chuckles to himself,

but he’s not laughing. Hiseyes darken, and he takes astep forward, surveying mefrom head to toe. Instead oflookingjudgmental,heseemssad. Deeply sad in the red-goldpoolsofhiseyes,alittleboylost,lookingforsomeonetosavehim.

“You’re a lot likeMaven,” he says after a long

moment thatmakesmyheartrace.

“You mean engaged to astranger?Wedohave that incommon.”

“You’rebothverysmart.”I can’t help but snort. Calobviously doesn’t know Ican’t get through a fourteen-year-old’s math test. “Youknowpeople,youunderstandthem,youseethroughthem.”

“I did a great job of that

last night. I definitely knewyou were the crown princethe whole time.” I still can’tbelieveitwasonlylastnight.What a difference a daymakes.

“You knew I didn’tbelong.”

Hissadnessiscontagious,sendinganacheoverme.“Sowe’veswitchedplaces.”

Suddenly the palacedoesn’t seem so beautiful or

so magnificent. The hardmetalandstoneistoosevere,too bright, too unnatural,trapping me in. Andunderneath it all, the electricbuzz of cameras drones on.It’s not even a sound but afeeling in my skin, in mybones,inmyblood.Mymindreaches out to the electricity,as if on instinct. Stop, I tellmyself.Stop.Thehair standsup on my arm as something

sizzles beneath my skin, acrackling energy I can’tcontrol. Of course it returnsnow,whenit’sthelastthingIwant.

But the feeling passes asquickly as it came, and theelectricityshiftstoalowhumagain,lettingtheworldreturntonormal.

“Areyouokay?”Cal stares down at me,

confused.

“Sorry,” I mumble,shaking my head. “Justthinking.”

He nods, looking almostapologetic. “About yourfamily?”

The words hit me like aslap. They hadn’t evencrossed my mind in the lastfewhours,anditsickensme.A few hours of silk androyaltyhavealreadychangedme.

“I’ve sent a conscriptrelease for your brothers andyour friend,andanofficer toyour house, to tell yourparents where you are,” Calcontinues,thinkingthismightcalmme.“Wecan’ttellthemeverythingthough.”

I can only imagine howthat went. Oh, hello. YourdaughterisaSilvernow,andshe’s going to marry aprince. You’ll never see her

again, but we’ll send yousomemoneytohelpout.Eventrade,don’tyouthink?

“Theyknowyouworkforus and have to live here, butthey still think you’re aservant. For now, at least.When your life becomesmore public,we’ll figure outhowtodealwiththem.”

“Can I write to them atleast?” Shade’s letters werealways a bright spot in our

dark days. Maybe mine willbethesame.

But Cal shakes his head.“I’m sorry, that’s just notpossible.”

“Ididn’tthinkso.”He ushers me into my

room,whichquicklysparklesto life. Motion-activatedlights, I think. Like back inthe hallway, my sensessharpen and everythingelectrical becomes a burning

feeling in my mind.ImmediatelyIknowthereareno less than four cameras inmy room and thatmakesmesquirm.

“It’s for your ownprotection. If anyonewere tointercept the letters, to findoutaboutyou—”

“Are the cameras in herefor my own protection?” Iask, gesturing to the walls.The cameras stab into my

skin, watching every inch ofme.It’smaddening,andafteradayliketoday,Idon’tknowhow much more I can take.“I’mlockedinthisnightmarepalace, surrounded by wallsand guards and people whowill tearme to shreds, and Ican’t even get a moment’speaceinmyownroom.”

Instead of snapping backatme, Cal looks bewildered.His eyes blaze around. The

wallsarebare,buthemustbeable to sense them too.Howcan anyone not feel the eyespressingdown?

“Mare, there aren’t anycamerasinhere.”

I wave a hand at him,dismissive. The electricalhum still breaks against myskin. “Don’t be stupid. I canfeelthem.”

Now he truly looks lost.“Feel them? What do you

mean?”“I—”Butthewordsdiein

my throat as I realize: hedoesn’t feel anything. Hedoesn’t even know what I’msaying. How can I explainthis to him, if he doesn’talreadyknow?HowcanItellhim I feel the energy in theair like a pulse, like anotherpart of me? Like anothersense? Would he evenunderstand?

Wouldanyone?“Isthat—notnormal?”Something flickers in his

eyesashehesitates,tryingtofind thewords to tellmeI’mdifferent. Even among theSilvers,I’msomethingelse.

“Not to my knowledge,”hefinallysays.

My voice sounds small,even to me. “I don’t thinkanything aboutme is normalanymore.”

He opens his mouth tospeak but thinks better of it.There’snothinghecansaytomakeme feel better. There’snothing he can do for me atall.

Inthefairytales,thepoorgirlsmileswhenshebecomesaprincess.Rightnow,Idon’tknowifI’lleversmileagain.

TWELVE

Your schedule isasfollows:

0730—Breakfast /0800—Protocol /1130Luncheon

1300—Lessons /1800—Dinner.

Lucas will escortyoutoall.Scheduleis

notnegotiable.

Her RoyalHighness QueenElara of HouseMerandus.

The note is short and to thepoint, not to mention rude.My mind swims at thethought of five hours ofLessons, remembering howterribleIwasatschool.With

agroan,Ithrowthenotebackdown on the nightstand. Itlands in a pool of goldenmorning light, just to teaseme.

Like yesterday, the threemaids flutter in, quiet as awhisper. Fifteen minuteslater, after suffering throughtight leather leggings, adraping gown, and otherstrange, impractical clothes,wesettleontheplainestthing

I can find in the closet ofwonders. Stretchy but sturdyblack pants, a purple jacketwith silver buttons, andpolished gray boots. Besidesthe glossy hair and the warpaint, I almost look likemyselfagain.

Lucas waits on the otherside of the door, one foottapping against the stonefloor. “One minute behindschedule,”hesaysthesecond

Istepintothehall.“Areyougoingtobabysit

me every day or just until Ilearnmywayaround?”

He falls into step besideme,gentlyguidingme in therightdirection.“Whatdoyouthink?”

“Here’s to a long andhappy friendship, OfficerSamos.”

“Likewise,mylady.”“Don’tcallmethat.”

“Whatever you say, mylady.”

Next to last night’s feast,breakfast looks dull incomparison. The “smaller”dining room is still large,withahighceilingandaviewoftheriver,butthelongtableis only set for three.Unfortunately for me, theother twohappen tobeElaraand Evangeline. They’realreadyhalfwaythroughtheir

bowls of fruit by the time Ishuffle in. Elara barelyglances at me, butEvangeline’ssharp-eyedstareis enough for both of them.Withthesunbouncingoffhermetal getup, she looks like ablindingstar.

“Youshouldeatquickly,”the queen says withoutlooking up. “Lady Blonosdoesnottoleratetardiness.”

Across from me,

Evangeline laughs into herhand. “You’re still takingProtocol?”

“You mean you aren’t?”Myheartleapsattheprospectof not having to sit throughclasseswithher.“Excellent.”

Evangeline scoffs at me,brushingofftheinsult.“OnlychildrentakeProtocol.”

Tomysurprise,thequeentakes my side. “LadyMareenahasgrownupunder

terrible circumstances. Sheknows nothing of our ways,of the expectations she mustfulfill now. Surely youunderstand her needs,Evangeline?”

The reprimand is calm,quiet, and threatening.Evangeline’ssmiledrops,andshe nods, not daring tomeetthequeen’seye.

“Luncheon today will beontheGlassTerrace,withthe

ladiesofQueenstrialandtheirmothers. Try not to gloat,”Elara adds, though I neverwould. Evangeline, on theotherhand,blusheswhite.

“They’re still here?” Ihear myself ask. “Even after—notbeingchosen?”

Elara nods. “Our guestswill be here for the comingweeks, to properly honor theprince and his betrothed.They won’t leave until after

thePartingBall.”Myheartplummetsinmy

chest until it bounces aroundmy toes. Somore nights likelast night, with the pressingcrowd and a thousand eyes.They’ll ask questions too,questionsI’llhavetoanswer.“Lovely.”

“And after the ball, weleave with them,” Elaracontinues, twisting the knife.“Toreturntothecapital.”

The capital. Archeon. Iknow the royal family goesback to Whitefire Palace attheendofeverysummer,andnow I’m going too. I’ll haveto leave, and this world Ican’tunderstandwillbecomemyonly reality. I’ll neverbeable to go home. You knewthis,Itellmyself,youagreedtothis.Butitdoesn’thurtanyless.

When I escape back into thehallway, Lucas ushers medown the passage. As wewalk, he smirks atme. “Youhave watermelon on yourface.”

“Of course I do,” I snap,wipingatmymouthwithmysleeve.

“Lady Blonos is justthrough here,” he says,gesturing to the end of thehall.

“What’s the story abouther? Can she fly or makeflowers grow out of herears?”

Lucas cracks a smile,humoring me. “Not quite.She’s a healer. Now, there’stwo kinds of healers: skinhealersandbloodhealers.Allof House Blonos are bloodhealers, meaning they canheal themselves. I couldthrow her off the top of the

Hall and she’d walk awaywithoutascratch.”

I’d like to see that tested,but I don’t say so out loud.“I’ve never heard of a bloodhealerbefore.”

“You wouldn’t have,since they’re not allowed tofight in the arenas. There’ssimplynopointinthemdoingit.”

Wow. Yet another Silverof epic proportions. “So if I

have,um,anepisode—”Lucas softens,

understanding what I’mtrying to say. “She’ll be justfine. The curtains, on theotherhand...”

“That’s why they gaveher to me. Because I’mdangerous.”

But Lucas shakes hishead. “Lady Titanos, theygavehertoyoubecauseyourpostureisterribleandyoueat

like a dog. Bess Blonos isgoingtoteachyouhowtobealadyandifyoulightherupacoupleoftimes,noonewillblameyou.”

Howtobealady...thiswillbeawful.

He raps his knuckles onthedoor,makingmejump.Itswingsopenonsilent,smoothhinges, revealing a sunlitroom.

“I’llbebacktobringyou

to lunch,” he says. I don’tmove, my feet planted, butLucas nudges me into thedreadedroom.

The door swings behindme,thistimeshuttingoutthehall and anything that mightcalmme down. The room isfine but plain with awall ofwindows, and totally empty.The buzzing of cameras,lights,electricity, is vibrantlystronginhere,almostburning

the air around me with itsenergy.I’msurethequeeniswatching, ready to laugh atmyattemptstobeproper.

“Hello?” I say, expectingaresponse,butnothingcomes

I cross to the windows,lookingouton thecourtyard.Instead of another prettygarden, I’m surprised to findthis window doesn’t faceoutsideatallbutdownintoagiganticwhiteroom.

The floor is severalstoriesbelowme,andatrackrings the outer edge. In thecenter, a strange contraptionmoves and turns, spinninground and round withoutstretchedmetalarms.Menand women, all in uniform,dodge the spinning machine.It picks up speed, twirlingfaster,untilonly two remain.They’re quick, dipping anddodging with grace and

speed. At every turn themachine accelerates, until itfinally slows, shutting down.They’vebeatenit.

Thismustbesomekindoftraining, for Security orSentinels.

Butwhenthetwotraineesmove on to target practice, Irealizetheyaren’tSecurityatall. The pair of them shootbright red fireballs into theair, exploding targets as they

rise and fall. Each one is aperfect shot, and even fromup here, I recognize theirsmiling faces. Cal andMaven.

So this is what they doduring the day. Not learningtorule,tobeaking,orevenaproper lord, but to train forwar. Cal and Maven aredeadlycreatures,soldiers.Buttheir battle isn’t just on thelines.It’shere,inapalace,on

thebroadcasts,intheheartofevery person they rule. Theywillrule,notjustbyrightofacrownbutbymight.Strengthandpower.It’salltheSilversrespect,andit’sallittakestokeeptherestofusslaves.

Evangeline stepsupnext.When the targets fly, shethrows out a fan of sharpsilver metal darts to takedown each one in turn. Nowondershelaughedatmefor

Protocol. While I’m in herelearninghow to eat properly,she’strainingtokill.

“Enjoyingtheshow,LadyMareena?” a voice crowsbehindme.Iturnaround,mynerves tingling a bit.What Isee doesn’t do anything tocalmme.

Lady Blonos is ahorrifying sight, and it takesallofmymannerstokeepmyjaw from dropping. Blood

healer,able tohealherself. Iunderstand now what thatmeans.

She must be over fifty,olderthanmymother,butherskin is smooth andshockingly tight over herbones. Her hair is perfectlywhite, slicked back, and hereyebrows seem fixed in aconstant state of shock,arched on her unwrinkledforehead. Everything about

her is wrong, from her too-full lips to the sharp,unnatural slope of her nose.Onlyherdeepgrayeyeslookalive. The rest, I realize, isfake. Somehow shewas abletohealorchangeherself intothis monstrous thing in anattempt to look younger,prettier,better.

“Sorry,”Ifinallymanage,“I came in, and you weren’t—”

“I observed,” she clips,already hating me. “Youstandlikeatreeinastorm.”

She seizes my shouldersand pulls them back, forcingme to stand up straight. “MynameisBessBlonos,andI’mgoingtoattempttomakeyoua lady.You’re going to be aprincess one day, and wecan’t have you acting like asavage,canwe?”

Savage. For a brief,

shiningmoment,Ithinkaboutspitting in silly LadyBlonos’s face. But whatwould that cost me? Whatwould that accomplish? Anditwouldonlyproveherright.Worst of all, I realize I needher.Hertrainingwillkeepmefrom slipping and, mostimportant,keepmealive.

“No,” a hollow shell ofmyvoiceanswers.“Wecan’thavethat.”

Exactlythreeandahalfhourslater, Blonos releases mefrom her clutches and backinto Lucas’s care. My backaches from the posturelessons about how to sit,stand, walk, and even sleep(on your back, arms at yoursides, always still), but it’snothing compared to themental exercise she put methrough.Shedrilled the rulesofcourt intomyhead, filling

me with names, protocols,and etiquette. In the last fewhours I received a crashcourse in anything andeverything I’m supposed toknow. The hierarchy amongthe High Houses is slowlycoming into focus, but I’msure I’ll mess up somethinganyway. We only scratchedthe surface of Protocol, butnow I can go to the queen’sstupid function with at least

someideaofhowtoact.The Glass Terrace is

relatively close by, only afloor down and a hallwayover,soIdon’tgetmuchtimeto collect myself beforefacing Elara and Evangelineagain.This time,whenIstepthrough the doorway, I’mgreeted by invigorating freshair. I’m outside for the firsttimesinceIbecameMareena,butnow,withthewindinmy

lungsandthesunonmyface,IfeelmorelikeMareagain.IfIclosemyeyes,Icanpretendnone of this ever happened.Butitdid.

The Glass Terrace is asornate asBlonos’s classroomwas bare and lives up to itsname. A glass canopy,supported by clear, artfullycut columns, stretches overus, refracting the sun into amillion dancing colors to

match the women millingabout. It’s beautiful in anartificialway,likeeverythingelseinthisSilverworld.

BeforeIhaveachancetotake a breath, a pair of girlssteps in front of me. Theirsmilesarefakeandcold, justliketheireyes.Judgingbythecolors of their gowns (darkblue and red on one, solidblack on the other), theybelong to House Iral and

House Haven. Silks andshadows, I remember,thinking back to Blonos’slessonsonabilities.

“LadyMareena,”theysayinunison,bowingstiffly.Idothe same, inclining my headthewayLadyBlonosshowedme.

“I’m Sonya of HouseIral,” the first says, tossingher head proudly. Hermovements are lithe and

catlike. Silks are quick andquiet, perfectly balanced andagile.

“AndI’mElaneofHouseHaven,” the other adds, hervoicebarelyawhisper.Whilethe Iral girl is dark, withdeeply tannedskinandblackhair, Elane is pale, withglossyredlocks.Thedancingsunlightspecklesherskininaperfecthalo,makingherlookflawless. Shadow, bender of

light. “We wanted towelcomeyou.”

But their pointed smilesandnarrowedeyesdon’tlookwelcomingatall.

“Thank you. That’s verykind.” I clear my throat,trying to sound normal, andthe girls don’t miss theaction, exchanging glances.“You also participated inQueenstrial?” I say quickly,hoping to distract them from

myterriblesocialgraces.This only seems to

incense them. Sonya crossesherarms,showingsharpnailsthe color of iron. “We did.Obviously we were not soluckyasyouorEvangeline.”

“Sorry—,” comes outbeforeIcanstopit.Mareenawouldnotapologize.“Imean,you know I had no intentionof—”

“Your intentions remain

to be seen,” Sonya purrs,lookingmore like a cat withevery passing second. Whenshe turns, snapping herfingers in a way that makesher nails slice along eachother,Iflinch.“Grandmother,comemeetLadyMareena.”

Grandmother. I almostbreathe a sigh of relief,expecting a kindly oldwoman to come waddlingover and saveme from these

biting girls. But I’m sorelymistaken.

Instead of a wizenedcrone, I’m met with aformidable woman made ofsteel and shadow. LikeSonya,shehascoffee-coloredskin and black hair, thoughhers is shot with streaks ofwhite. Despite her age, herbrowneyessparkwithlife.

“Lady Mareena, this ismy grandmother Lady Ara,

the head of House Iral.”Sonyaexplainswithapointedsmirk.Theolderwomaneyesme, and her gaze is worsethan any camera, piercingstraightthroughme.“Perhapsyou know her as thePanther?”

“ThePanther?Idon’t—”But Sonya keeps talking,

enjoying watching mesquirm. “Many years ago,when the war slowed,

intelligence agents becamemore important thansoldiers.The Pantherwas the greatestofthemall.”

A spy. I’m standing infrontofaspy.

Iforcemyselftosmile,ifonly to tryandhidemy fear.Sweat breaks out on mypalms, and I hope I don’thave to shake any hands. “Apleasure to meet you, mylady.”

Arasimplynods.“Iknewyour father, Mareena. Andyourmother.”

“I miss them terribly,” Ireply, saying the words toplacateher.

But the Panther looksperplexed,tippingherheadtothe side. For a second, I cansee thousands of secrets,hard-won in the shadows ofwar, reflecting in her eyes.“You remember them?” she

asks,proddingatmylie.My voice catches, but I

have to keep talking, keeplying. “I don’t, but I misshaving parents.” Mom andDad flash in mymind, but Ipush them away. My Redpast is the last thing I shouldthink about. “I wish theywere here to help meunderstandallthis.”

“Hmm,” she says,surveying me again. Her

suspicion makes me want toleap off the balcony. “Yourfather had blue eyes, as didyourmother.”

And my eyes are brown.“Iamdifferentinmanyways,most Idon’tevenunderstandyet,” is all I can manage tosay, hoping that explanationwillbeenough.

For once, the queen’svoiceismysavior.“Shallwesit,ladies?”shesays,echoing

overthecrowd.It’senoughtopull me away from Ara,Sonya,andthequietElane,toa seat where I can breathe alittlesightomyself.

Halfway to Lessons, I beginto feel calm again. Iaddressed everyone properlyand only spoke asmuch as Ihad to, as instructed.Evangeline talkedenoughforboth of us, regaling the

women with her “undyinglove” for Cal and the honorshe felt at being chosen. Ithought the Queenstrial girlswould band together and killher, but they didn’t, to myannoyance. Only the Iralgrandmother and Sonyaseemed to even care that Iwas there, though theydidn’tpush their interrogation anyfurther. But they certainlywill.

When Maven appearsaround the corner, I’m soproudofmysurvivalatlunchthatI’mnotevenannoyedbyhis presence. In fact, I feelstrangelyrelievedandletabitofmycoldactdrop.Hegrins,coming closer with a fewlongstrides.

“Still alive?” he asks.Compared to the Irals, he’slikeafriendlypuppy.

I can’t help but smile.

“You should send Lady Iralback to the Lakelanders.She’ll make them surrenderinaweek.”

Heforcesahollowlaugh.“She’s a battle-ax that one.Can’t seem to understandshe’s not in the war anylonger.Did she question youatall?”

“More like interrogate. Ithink she’s angry I beat outhergranddaughter.”

Fear flickers in his eyes,and I understand it. If thePantherissniffingaroundmytrail . . . “She shouldn’tbother you like that,” hemutters. “I’ll let my motherknow,andshe’ll takecareofit.”

Asmuch as I don’twanthishelp,Idon’tseeanyotherwayaroundit.AwomanlikeAra could easily find thecracks inmy story, and then

I’ll be truly finished.“Thanks, that would—thatwouldbeveryhelpful.”

Maven’s dress uniform isgone, replaced by casualclothes built for form andfunction. It calmsmea little,to see at least someonelooking so informal. But Ican’t let anything about himsootheme.He’soneof them.Ican’tforgetthat.

“Are you done for the

day?” he says, his faceclearing to reveal an eagersmile. “I could show youaroundifyouwant.”

“No.” The word comesout quickly, and his smilefades.Hisfrownunsettlesmeasmuchashissmile.“IhaveLessons next,” I add, hopingto soften the blow. Why Icare about his feelings, Idon’t exactly know. “Yourmotherlovesherschedules.”

He nods, looking a littlebetter. “She does indeed.Well,Iwon’tkeepyou.”

He takesmyhandgently.The cold I felt on his skinbefore is gone, replacedwithadelightfulheat.BeforeIgeta chance to pull away, heleaves me standing therealone.

Lucasgivesmeamomentto collect myself beforenoting,“Youknow,we’dget

there much faster if youactuallymoved.”

“Shutup,Lucas.”

THIRTEEN

My next instructor waits forme in a room cluttered fromfloor to ceiling with morebooks than I’ve ever seen,more books than I everthought existed. They lookold and completely priceless.Despite my aversion toschoolandbooksofanykind,I feel apull to them.But the

titlesandpagesarewrittenina language I don’tunderstand, a jumble ofsymbolsIcouldneverhopetodecipher.

Just as intriguing as thebooksarethemapsalongthewall, of the kingdom andother lands, old and new.Framed against the far wall,behind a pane of glass, is avast, colorful map piecedtogether from separate sheets

ofpaper.It’satleasttwiceastall asme and dominates theroom.Fadedandripped,it’satangled knot of red lines andbluecoasts,greenforestsandyellow cities. This is the oldworld, thebeforeworld,witholdnamesandoldborderswenolongerhaveanyusefor.

“It’sstrangetolookattheworld as it once was,” theinstructorsays,appearingoutof the book stacks. His

yellow robes, stained andfadedbyage,makehimlooklike a human piece of paper.“Can you find where weare?”

Thesheersizeofthemapmakes me gulp, but, likeeverythingelse, I’msure thisisatest.“Icantry.”

Norta is the northeast.The Stilts is on the CapitalRiver, and the river goes tothe sea. After a minute of

pained searching, I finallyfind the river and the inletnear my village. “There,” Isay, pointing just north,where I suppose Summertonmightbe.

He nods, happy to knowI’mnota total fool.“Doyourecognizeanythingelse?”

But like the books, themap is written in theunknown language. “I can’treadit.”

“Ididn’task ifyoucouldread it,” he replies, stillpleasant.“Besides,wordscanlie.Seebeyondthem.”

With a shrug, I forcemyself to look again. I wasnever a good student inschool,andthismanisgoingto find thatout soonenough.Buttomysurprise,Ilikethisgame. Searching the map,looking for features Irecognize. “That might be

Harbor Bay,” I finallymurmur, circling the areaaroundahookedcape.

“Correct,” he says, hisfacefoldingintoasmile.Thewrinkles around his eyesdeepen with the action,showing his age. “This isDelphie now,” he adds,pointing to a city farthersouth. “And Archeon ishere.”

He puts his finger over

theCapitalRiver,afewmilesnorth of what looks like thelargestcityonthemap,intheentire country of the beforeworld.The Ruins. I’ve heardthe name, in whispersbetween the older kids, andfrom my brother Shade. TheAsh City, the Wreckage, hecalledit.Atremorrunsdownmy spine at the thought ofsuch a place, still covered insmoke and shadow from a

war more than a thousandyears ago. Will this worldever be like that, if our wardoesn’tend?

Theinstructorstandsbacktoletmethink.Hehasaverystrange idea of teaching; it’llprobablyendwithafour-hourgameofmestaringatawall.

But suddenly, I’m veryaware of the buzz in thisroom. Or lack thereof. Thisentire day I’ve felt the

electrical weight of cameras,so much that I’ve stoppednoticing. Until now, when Idon’tfeelitatall.It’sgone.Icanfeelthelightsstillpulsingwith electricity, but nocameras. No eyes. Elaracannotseemehere.

“Why isn’t anyonewatchingus?”

Heonlyblinksatme.“Sothere is a difference,” hemutters. What that means I

don’t know, and it infuriatesme.

“Why?”“Mare, I’m here to teach

you your histories, to teachyouhowtobeSilverandhowtobe,ah,useful,”hesays,hisexpressionsouring.

I stare at him, confused.Cold fearbleeds throughme.“MynameisMareena.”

Butheonlywavesahand,brushing aside my feeble

declaration. “I’m also goingto try to understand exactlyhowyoucametobeandhowyourabilitieswork.”

“My abilities came to bebecause—because I’m aSilver. My parents’ abilitiesmixed—my father was anoblivion and my mother astorm.” I stutter through theexplanation Elara fed me,trying to make himunderstand. “I’m a Silver,

sir.”To my horror, he shakes

his head. “No you are not,Mare Barrow, and you mustneverforgetit.”

He knows. I’m finished.It’s all over. I should beg,plead for him to keep mysecret, but thewords stick inmythroat.Theendiscoming,and I can’t even open mymouthtostopit.

“There’s no need for

that,”hecontinues,notingmyfear. “I have no plans ofalerting anyone to yourheritage.”

The relief I feel is short-lived, shifting into anotherkindoffear.“Why?Whatdoyouwantfromme?”

“Iam,aboveall things,acurious man. And when youentered Queenstrial a Redservant and ran out somelong-lost Silver lady, I have

tosayIwasquitecurious.”“Is that why there aren’t

any cameras in here?” Ibristle, backing away fromhim. My fists clench, and Iwish the lightning wouldcometoprotectmefromthisman.“Sothere’snorecordofyouexaminingme?”

“There are no cameras inherebecauseIhavethepowertoturnthemoff.”

Hope sparks in me, like

light in absolute darkness.“What is your power?” I askshakily.Maybehe’slikeme.

“Mare,whenaSilversays‘power,’ they mean might,strength. ‘Ability,’ on theother hand, refers to all thesilly little thingswecando.”Sillylittlethings.Likebreakaman in two or drown him inthetownsquare.“Imeanthatmy sister was queen once,and that still counts for

somethingaroundhere.”“LadyBlonosdidn’tteach

methat.”He chuckles to himself.

“That’sbecauseLadyBlonosis teaching you nonsense. Iwillneverdothat.”

“So, if the queen wasyoursister,thenyou’re—”

“Julian Jacos, at yourservice.” He sweeps into acomicallylowbow.“HeadofHouse Jacos, heir to nothing

more than a few old books.My sisterwas the late queenCoriane, and Prince TiberiastheSeventh,Calasweallcallhim,ismynephew.”

Nowthathesaysit,Icansee the resemblance. Cal’scoloring is his father’s, butthe easy expression, thewarmth behind his eyes—those must come from hismother.

“So, you’re not going to

turn me into some scienceexperiment for the queen?” Iask,stillwary.

Instead of lookingoffended,Julianlaughsaloud.“My dear, the queen wouldlike nothing more than foryoutodisappear.Discoveringwhat you are, helping youunderstandit,isthelastthingshewants.”

“Butyou’regoingtodoitanyway?”

Something flashes in hiseyes, something like anger.“The queen’s reach is not solong as she wants you tothink. I want to know whatyouare,andI’msureyoudotoo.”

As afraid as I was amoment ago, that’s howintriguedIamnow.“Ido.”

“That’s what I thought,”hesays,smilingatmeoverastackofbooks. “I’m sorry to

say Imust also dowhatwasasked, to prepare you for thedayyoustepforward.”

My face falls,remembering what Calexplainedinthethroneroom.You are their champion. ASilverraisedRed.“Theywanttousemetostoparebellion.Somehow.”

“Yes,mydearbrother-in-lawandhisqueenbelieveyoucan do so, if used

appropriately.” Bitternessdripsfromhiseveryword.

“It’s a stupid idea andimpossible.Iwon’tbeabletodo anything, and then . . .”My voice trails away. Thenthey’llkillme.

Julianfollowsmytrainofthought. “You’re wrong,Mare. You don’t understandthepoweryouhavenow,howmuchyoucouldcontrol.”Heclasps his hands behind his

back, oddly tight. “TheScarlet Guard are too drasticfor most, too much too fast.But you are the controlledchange, the kind people cantrust. You are the slow burnthatwill quench a revolutionwith a few speeches andsmiles.You can speak to theReds, tell them how noble,how benevolent, how rightthe king and his Silvers are.You can talk your people

back into their chains. Eventhe Silvers who question theking, the ones who havedoubts, can be convinced byyou.And theworldwill staythesame.”

To my surprise, Julianseems disheartened by this.Withoutthebuzzingcameras,I forget myself and my facecurls into a sneer. “And youdon’t want that? You’re aSilver, you should hate the

ScarletGuard—andme.”“Thinking all Silvers are

evil is just as wrong asthinking all Reds areinferior,” he says, his voicegrave. “What my people aredoing to you and yours iswrongtothedeepestlevelsofhumanity. Oppressing you,trapping you in an endlesscycle of poverty and death,justbecausewethinkyouaredifferentfromus?Thatisnot

right. And as any student ofhistory can tell you, it willendpoorly.”

“But we are different.”Oneday in thisworld taughtmethat.“We’renotequal.”

Julian stoops, his eyesboring into mine. “I’mlooking at proof you arewrong.”

You’relookingatafreak,Julian.

“Will you let me prove

youwrong,Mare?”“What good will it do?

Nothingwillchange.”Julian sighs, exasperated.

He runs a hand through histhinning chestnut hair. “Forhundredsofyears theSilvershave walked the earth aslivinggodsandtheRedshavebeenslavesattheirfeet,untilyou. If that isn’t change, Idon’tknowwhatis.”

He can help me survive.

Betteryet,hemightevenhelpmelive.

“Sowhatdowedo?”

My days take on a rhythm,always the same schedule.Protocol in the morning,Lessons in the afternoon,while Elara parades me atlunches and dinners inbetween. The Panther andSonya still seemwary ofmebut haven’t said anything

since the luncheon. Maven’shelp seems to have worked,asmuchasIhatetoadmitit.

At the next largegathering, this time in thequeen’s personal dining hall,the Irals ignore mecompletely. Despite myProtocol lessons, luncheon isstilloverwhelmingas I try toremember what I’ve beentaught.Osanos,nymphs,blueand green. Welle,

greenwardens, green andgold. Lerolan, oblivions,orange and red. Rhambosand Tyros and Nornus andIral and many more. Howanyone keeps track of this,I’llneverknow.

Asusual, I’mseatednextto Evangeline. I’m painfullyaware of the many metalutensilsonthetable,alllethalweapons in Evangeline’scruel hand. Every time she

liftsherknifetocutherfood,my body tenses, waiting forthe blow. Elara knows whatI’m thinking, as usual, butcarries on through her mealwith a smile. That might beworse than Evangeline’storture, to know she takespleasure in watching oursilentwar.

“AndhowdoyouliketheHall of the Sun, LadyTitanos?”thegirlacrossfrom

me asks—Atara, HouseViper, green and black. Theanimoswho killed the doves.“Iassume it’snocomparisonto the—the village you livedinbefore.”Shesaysthewordvillage like a curse, and Idon’tmisshersmirk.

The other women laughwithher,afewwhisperinginscandalizedvoices.

It takes me a minute torespond as I try to keep my

bloodfromboiling.“TheHalland Summerton are verydifferent fromwhat I’musedto,”Iforceout.

“Obviously,” anotherwomansays, leaningforwardto join the conversation. AWelle, judging by her green-and-goldtunic.“Itookatourof the Capital Valley once,and I must say, the Redvillages are simplydeplorable. They don’t even

haveproperroads.”We can barely feed

ourselves, let alone pavestreets.MyjawtightensuntilI think my teeth mightshatter. I try to smile butinstead end up grimacing asthe other women voice theiragreement.

“And the Reds, well, Isupposeit’sthebesttheycandowithwhat theyhave,” theWelle continues, wrinkling

her nose at the thought.“They’re suited to suchlives.”

“It’s not our fault theywereborntoserve,”abrown-robedRhambossaysairily,asif she’s talking about theweather or the food. “It’ssimplynature.”

Anger curls through me,but one glance from thequeentellsmeIcannotactonit.Instead,Imustdomyduty.

I must lie. “It is indeed,” Ihear myself say. Under thetable,myhandsclench,andIthink my heart might bebreaking.

All over the table, thewomen listen attentively.Many smile, more nod as Ireassert their terrible beliefsaboutmypeople.Their facesmakemewanttoscream.

“Of course,” I continue,unabletostopmyself.“Being

forcedtolivesuchlives,withno respite, no reprieve, andno escape, would makeservantsofanyone.”

The few smiles fade,twitchingintobewilderment.

“Lady Titanos is to havethe best tutors and best helpto make sure she adjustsproperly,”Elarasaysquickly,cuttingmeoff.“She’salreadybegunwithLadyBlonos.”

The women mutter

appreciativelywhile the girlsexchange eye rolls. It’senough time to recover, toreclaimtheself-controlIneedtosurvivethemeal.

“What does His RoyalHighness intend to do aboutthe rebels?” a woman asks,her gruff voice sending ashock of silence over lunch,drawingfocusawayfromme.

Every eye at the tableturnstothespeaker,awoman

in military uniform. A fewotherladieswearuniformsaswell,buthersshineswiththemostmedalsandribbons.Theugly scar down her freckledface says she may actuallyhave earned them. Here in apalace, it’s easy to forgetthere’s a war going on, butthe haunted look in her eyesaysshewillnot,shecannot,forget.

Queen Elara puts down

her spoon with practicedgrace and an equallypracticed smile. “ColonelMacanthos, I would hardlycallthemrebels—”

“And that’s only theattack they’ve claimed,” thecolonelfiresback,cuttingoffthe queen. “What about theexplosion in Harbor Bay, ortheairfieldinDelphieforthatmatter? Three airjetsdestroyed, and two more

stolen from one of our ownbases!”

My eyes widen, and Ican’thelpbutgaspwithafewladies. More attacks? Butwhile the others lookfrightened, hands pressed totheir mouths, I have to fighttheurge to smile.Farley hasbeenbusy.

“Are you an engineer,Colonel?” Elara’s voice issharp, cold, and final. She

doesn’t give Macanthos achance to shake her head.“Then you wouldn’tunderstandhowagas leak inthe Bay was at fault for theexplosion. And remind me,do you command aerialtroops?Oh no, I’m so sorry,your specialty lies withground forces. The airfieldincident was a trainingexercise overseen by LordGeneralLarishimself.Hehas

personally assured HisHighnessoftheutmostsafetyoftheDelphiebase.”

Ina fair fight,Macanthoscould probably tear Elaraapartwithherbarehands.Butinstead,Elaratorethecolonelapartwithnothingbutwords.And she’s not even finished.Julian’s words echo in myhead—wordscanlie.

“Their goal is to harminnocent civilians, Silver and

Red, to incite fear andhysteria. They are small,contained, and cowardly,hiding from my husband’sjustice. To call everymishapand misunderstanding in thiskingdom the work of suchevilonlyfurtherstheireffortsto terrorizetherestofus.Donot give these monsters thesatisfactionofthat.”

Afewwomenatthetableclap and nod, agreeing with

the queen’s sweeping lie.Evangeline joins in, and theaction quickly spreads, untilonlythecolonelandIremainsilent. I can tell she doesn’tbelieve anything the queensays, but there’s no way tocallthequeenaliar.Nothere,notinherarena.

AsmuchasIwanttostaystill, I know I can’t. I’mMareena, not Mare, and Ihavetosupportmyqueenand

her wretched words. Myhands come together,clappingforElara’slie,asthescolded colonel bows herhead.

Even though I’m constantlysurrounded by servants andSilvers, loneliness sets in. Idon’t see Cal much, whatwith his busy schedule oftraining, training, and moretraining. He even gets to

leave the Hall, going toaddress troops at a nearbybase or accompanying hisfather on state business. Isuppose I could talk toMaven, with his blue eyesand half smirk, but I’m stillwary of him. Luckily we’renever truly left alone. It’s asilly court tradition, to keepnoble boys and girls frombeing tempted, as LadyBlonosputit,butIdoubtit’ll

everapplytome.Truthfully,half thetimeI

forgetI’msupposedtomarryhim one day. The idea ofMaven being my husbanddoesn’t seem real.We’re noteven friends, let alonepartners.Asniceasheis,myinstincts tell me not to turnmy back onElara’s son, thathe’s hiding something.Whatthatmightbe,Idon’tknow.

Julian’steachingsmakeit

all bearable; the education Ioncedreaded isnowabrightspot in my sea of darkness.Without the cameras andElara’s eyes, we can spendour time discovering what Ireally am. But the going isslow,frustratingusboth.

“IthinkIknowwhatyourproblemis,”Juliansaysattheend of my first week. I’mstanding a few yards away,arms outstretched, looking

like the usual fool.There’s astrange electrical contraptionat my feet, occasionallyspitting sparks. Julian wantsmetoharnessit,touseit,butonce again, I’ve failed toproducethelightningthatgotme into thismess in the firstplace.

“Maybe I have to be inmortal danger,” I huff.“Should we ask for Lucas’sgun?”

Usually Julian laughs atmy jokes, but right nowhe’stoobusythinking.

“You’re like a child,” hefinally says. I wrinkle mynose at the insult, but hecontinues anyway. “This ishow children are at first,when they can’t controlthemselves. Their abilitiespresent in times of stress orfear, until they learn toharness those emotions and

use them to their advantage.There’s a trigger, and youneedtofindyours.”

I remember how I felt inthe Spiral Garden, falling towhatIthoughtwasmydoom.But it wasn’t fear runningthrough my veins as Icollided with the lightningshield—it was peace. It wasknowing that my end hadcomeandacceptingtherewasnothing I could do to stop it

—itwaslettinggo.“It’sworthatry,atleast,”

Julianprods.With a groan, I face the

wall again. Julian lined itwithsomestonebookshelves,allemptyofcourse,soIhavesomething to aim at. Out ofthe corner of my eye, I seehimbackaway,watchingmeallthetime.

Let go. Let yourself go,the voice in my head

whispers. My eyes slideclosed as I focus, letting mythoughtsfallawaysothatmymind can reach out, feelingfor theelectricity it craves totouch. The ripple of energy,alivebeneathmyskin,movesovermeagainuntilitsingsinevery muscle and nerve.That’susuallywhereitstops,just on the edge of feeling,but not this time. Instead oftrying to hold on, to push

myself into this force, I letgo. And I fall into what Ican’texplain,intoasensationthat is everything andnothing, light and dark, hotand cold, alive and dead.Soon the power is the onlythinginmyhead,blottingoutallmy ghosts andmemories.Even Julian and the bookscease to exist. My mind isclear, a black void hummingwithforce.NowwhenIpush

at the sensation, it doesn’tdisappearanditmoveswithinme, frommyeyes to the tipsof my fingers. To my left,Juliangaspsaloud.

My eyes open to seepurple-white sparks jumpingfrom the contraption to myfingers, like electricitybetweenwires.

For once, Julian hasnothing to say. And neitherdoI.

I don’t want to move,afraid that any small changemight make the lightningdisappear.Butitdoesn’tfade.It remains, jumping andtwisting in my hand like akitten with a ball of yarn. Itseems just as harmless, but Iremember what I almost didto Evangeline. This powercandestroyifIletit.

“Try to move it,” Julianbreathes, watching me with

wide,excitedeyes.Something tells me this

lightning will obey mywishes. It’s part of me, apieceofmy soul alive in theworld.

My fist clenches into atightball,andthesparksreactto my straining muscles,becoming larger and brighterand faster. They eat away atthe sleeve of my shirt,burning through the fabric in

seconds. Like a childthrowing a ball, I whip myarmtowardthestoneshelves,releasing my fist at the lastmoment. The lightning fliesthrough the air in a circle ofbright sparks, colliding withthebookshelves.

Theresultingboommakesmescreamand fallback intoastackofbooks.AsItumbletotheground,heartracinginmy chest, the solid stone

bookshelf collapses on itselfin a cloud of thick dust.Sparks flash over the rubblefor a moment beforedisappearing, leavingnothingbutruinsbehind.

“Sorry about the shelf,” Isay from beneath a pile offallen books. My sleeve stillsmokes in a ruin of thread,but it’s nothing compared tothe buzz in my hand. Mynerves sing, tingling with

power—thatfeltgood.Julian’s shadow moves

through the cloudy air, alaugh resounding deep in hischest as he examines myhandiwork. His white gringlowsthroughthedust.

“We’re going to need abiggerclassroom.”

He’snotwrong.We’reforcedto find newer and biggerroomstopracticeineachday,

untilwefinallyfindaspotinthe underground levels aweeklater.Herethewallsaremetal and concrete, strongerthan thedecorativestoneandwoodoftheupperfloors.Myaimisdismaltosaytheleast,and Julian is very careful tosteer clear of my practicing,but it becomes easier andeasier for me to call up thelightning.

Julian takes notes the

whole time, jotting downeverythingfrommyheartbeatto the heat of a recentlyelectrified cup. Each newnote brings another puzzledbut happy smile to his face,though he doesn’t tell mewhy. I doubt I’d understandevenifhedid.

“Fascinating,” hemurmurs, reading somethingoff anothermetal contraptionI can’t name. He says it

measures electrical energy,buthowIdon’tknow.

I brush my handstogether, watching them“powerdown,”asJuliancallsit. My sleeves remain intactthis time, thanks to my newclothing. It’s fireproof fabric,like what Cal and Mavenwear, though I supposemineshould be called shockproof.“What’sfascinating?”

He hesitates, like he

doesn’t want to tell me, likehe shouldn’t tell me, butfinally shrugs. “Before youpowered up and fried thatpoor statue”—he gestures tothe smoking pile of rubblethatwasonceabustofsomeking—“I measured theamount of electricity in thisroom. From the lights, thewiring,thatsortofthing.AndnowIjustmeasuredyou.”

“And?”

“YougaveofftwicewhatI recorded before,” he saysproudly, but I don’t seewhyitmattersatall.Withaquickdip,heswitchesoffthesparkbox, as I’ve taken to callingit. Icanfeel theelectricity initdieaway.“Tryagain.”

Huffing, I focus again.After a moment ofconcentration, my sparksreturn, just as strong asbefore. But this time they

comefromwithinme.Julian’s grin splits his

facefromeartoear.“So...?”“So this confirms my

suspicions.” Sometimes Iforget Julian is a scholar anda scientist. But he’s alwaysquick to remind me. “Youproducedelectricalenergy.”

NowI’mreallyconfused.“Right. That’s my ability,Julian.”

“No, I thought yourability was the power tomanipulate, not create,” hesays, his voice droppinggravely. “No one can create,Mare.”

“But that doesn’t makesense.Thenymphs—”

“Manipulate water thatalreadyexists.Theycan’tusewhatisn’tthere.”

“Well, what about Cal?Maven? I don’t see many

raging infernos around forthemtoplaywith.”

Julian smiles, shakinghishead. “You’ve seen theirbracelets,yes?”

“They always wearthem.”

“The bracelets makesparks, little tiny flames forthe boys to control. Withoutsomething to start the fire,they are powerless. Allelementals are the same,

manipulating metal or wateror plant life that alreadyexists.They’reonlyasstrongas their surroundings. Notlikeyou,Mare.”

Not like me. I’m not likeanyone. “So what does thismean?”

“I’m not quite sure. Youare something else entirely.Not Red, not Silver.Something else. Somethingmore.”

“Something different.” Iexpected Julian’s tests tobringmecloser tosomekindof answer, but instead theyonly raise more questions.“What am I, Julian? What’swrongwithme?”

Suddenly it’s verydifficult to breathe, and myeyes swim. I have to blinkback hot tears, trying to hidethem from Julian. It’s allcatching up to me, I think.

Lessons, Protocol, this placewhere I can’t trust anyone,where I’m not even myself.It’s suffocating. I want toscream,butIknowIcan’t.

“There’s nothing wrongwith being different,” I hearJulian say, but thewords arejust an echo. My ownthoughts,memories of home,of Gisa and Kilorn, drownhimout.

“Mare?” He takes a step

towardme,his faceapictureofkindness—buthekeepsmeat an arm’s length. Not formysake—hisown.Toprotecthimself from me. With agasp,Irealizethesparkshavereturned, running up myforearms now, threatening toengulf me in a raging brightstorm. “Mare, focus on me.Mare,controlit.”

He speaks softly, calmly,but with steady force. He

evenlooksfrightenedofme.“Control,Mare.”But I can’t control

anything. Notmy future, notmy thoughts, not even thisability that is the root of allmytroubles.

There is one thing I canstill control though, for now,atleast.Myfeet.

LikethewretchedcowardthatIam,Irun.

The halls are empty as I

tear through them, but theinvisibleweightofathousandcameraspressesdownonme.I don’t havemuch timeuntilLucas or, worse, theSentinels,findme.Ijustneedto breathe. I just need to seetheskyaboveme,notglass.

I’m standing on thebalcony a full ten secondsbefore I realize it’s raining,washing me clean of myboilinganger.The sparksare

gone,replacedbyfierce,uglytearsthattrackdownmyface.Thunder rumbles somewherefar off, and the air is warm.But thehumid temperature isgone. The heat has broken,and summer will soon beover.Timeispassing.Mylifeismovingon,nomatterhowmuch I want it to stay thesame.

When a strong handcloses around my arm, I

almostscream.TwoSentinelsstandoverme,theireyesdarkbehind theirmasks. Both aretwice my size and heartless,trying to drag me back intomyprison.

“My lady,” one of themgrowls, but it doesn’t soundrespectfulatall.

“Let me go.” Thecommand is weak, almost awhisper. Igulpdownair likeI’m drowning. “Just giveme

afewminutes,please—”But I’m not their master.

Theydon’tanswertome.Noonedoes.

“You heard my bride,”anothervoicesays.Hiswordsare firm and hard, the voiceof royalty. Maven. “Let hergo.”

Whentheprincestepsoutontothebalcony,Ican’thelpbut feel a rush of relief. TheSentinels straighten at his

presence, both inclining theirheads in his direction. Theone holding me speaks up.“We must keep the LadyTitanos to her schedule,” hesays, buthe loosenshisgrip.“It’sorders,sir.”

“Then you have neworders,” Maven replies, hisvoice like ice. “I willaccompany Mareena back toherlessons.”

“Very well, sir,” the

Sentinels say in unison,unabletorefuseaprince.

When they stomp away,their flaming cloaks drippingrain, I sighout loud. I didn’trealize it before, but myhandsareshaking,andIhavetoclenchmyfists tohidethetremors. But Maven isnothing if not polite andpretendsnottonotice.

“We have workingshowersinside,youknow.”

My hands wipe at myeyes, though my tears arelong lost in the rain, leavingbehind only anembarrassingly runny noseand some black makeup.Thankfully,mysilverpowderholds. It’s made of strongerstuffthanIam.

“Firstrainoftheseason,”I manage, forcing myself tosoundnormal. “Had to see itformyself.”

“Right,” he says, movingtostandnexttome.Iturnmyhead,hopingtohidemyfacefor just a little bit longer. “Iunderstand,youknow.”

Do you, Prince? Do youunderstand what it’s like tobe taken away fromeverythingyoulove,forcedtobe something else? To lieeveryminuteofeverydayfortherestofyourlife?Toknowthere’ssomethingwrongwith

you?I don’t have the strength

to deal with his knowingsmiles. “You can stoppretending to know anythingaboutmeormyfeelings.”

His expression sours atmy tone, his mouth twistinginto a grimace. “You think Idon’tknowhowdifficultitisto be here? With thesepeople?” He casts a glanceover his shoulder like he’s

worried someonemighthear.But there’s no one listeningexcept the rain and thunder.“I can’t say what I want, dowhat I want—with mymother around I can barelyeven think what Iwant.Andmybrother—!”

“What about yourbrother?”

The words stick in hismouth. He doesn’t want tosay them, but he feels them

all the same. “He’s strong,he’s talented, he’s powerful—and I’m his shadow. Theshadowoftheflame.”

Slowly, he exhales, and Irealize the air around us isstrangely hot. “Sorry,” headds, taking a step away,lettingtheaircool.Beforemyeyes, he melts back into theSilver prince more suited tobanquets and dress uniforms.“Ishouldn’thavesaidthat.”

“It’s fine,” I murmur.“It’snicetohearthatI’mnotcompletely alone in feelingoutofplace.”

“That’s something youshouldknowaboutusSilvers.We’re always alone. In here,and here,” he says, pointingbetween his head and hisheart.“Itkeepsyoustrong.”

Lightning cracksoverhead, illuminating hisblue eyes until they seem to

glow. “That’s just stupid,” Itell him, and he chucklesdarkly.

“You better hide thatheartofyours,LadyTitanos.It won’t lead you anywhereyouwanttogo.”

The words make meshiver. Finally I rememberthe rain and themess Imustlook like. “I should get backtomylessons,”Imutter,fullyintendingtoleavehimonthe

balcony. Instead, he catchesmyarm.

“I think I can help youwithyourproblem.”

I quirk an eyebrow athim.“Whatproblem?”

“You don’t seem like thetype of girl to weep at thedrop of a hat. You’rehomesick.” He holds up ahand before I can protest. “Icanfixthat.”

FOURTEEN

Security patrols my hallwayin roving pairs, but withMavenonmyarm,theydon’tstop me. Even though it’snight, long past when Ishouldbeinbed,noonesaysa word. No one crosses aprince. Where he’s leadingnow, I don’t know, but hepromised to get me there.

Home.He’s quiet but

determined, fighting a smallsmile. I can’t help but beamat him. Maybe he isn’t sobad. But he stops us longbefore I assume he should—we never even leave theresidencefloors.

“Here we are,” he says,andrapsonthedoor.

It swings open after amoment, revealing Cal. His

appearance takes me back astep.His chest is bare,whilethe rest of his strange armorhangs off him. Metal plateswoven into fabric, someof itdented. I don’t miss thepurplebruiseabovehisheart,or the faint stubble on hischeeks.It’sthefirsttimeI’veseenhiminoveraweek,andI’ve caught him at a badmoment, obviously. Hedoesn’t notice me at first;

he’s focused on removingmore of his armor. It makesmegulp.

“Gottheboardset,Mavey—,” he begins, but stopswhen he looks up to seemestanding with his brother.“Mare, how can I, uh, whatcan I do for you?” Hestumblesoverhiswords,atalossforonce.

“I’m not exactly sure,” Ireply, looking from him to

Maven. My betrothed onlysmirks, raising an eyebrow alittle.

“For being the good son,my brother has his owndiscretions,” he says, and hisair is surprisingly playful.EvenCalgrinsalittle,rollinghis eyes. “Youwanted to gohome, Mare, and I’ve foundyou someone who’s beentherebefore.”

After a second of

confusion, I realize whatMaven is saying and howstupidIamfornotrealizingitbefore.Calcangetmeoutofthe palace. Cal was at thetavern....Hegothimselfoutof here, so he can do thesameforme.

“Maven,” Cal saysthroughgritted teeth,hisgringone. “You know she can’t.It’snotagoodidea—”

It’smy turn to speak up,

totakewhatIwant.“Liar.”He looks at me with his

burning eyes, his stare goingright through me. I hope hecanseemydetermination,mydesperation,myneed.

“We’ve taken everythingfrom her, brother,” Mavenmurmurs, drawing close.“Surely we can give herthis?”

And then slowly,reluctantly, Cal nods and

waves me into his room.Dizzy with excitement, Ihurry inside, almost hoppingfromfoottofoot.

I’mgoinghome.Mavenlingersatthedoor,

hissmile fadinga littlewhenI leave his side. “You’re notcoming.”Itisn’taquestion.

He shakes his head.“You’llhaveenoughtoworryabout without me taggingalong.”

I don’t have to be agenius to see the truth in hiswords. But just because heisn’t coming doesn’t mean Iwillforgetwhathe’sdoneformealready.Withoutthinking,I throw my arms aroundMaven. He doesn’t respondfor a second but slowly letsan arm drop around myshoulders.When I pull back,a silver blush paints hischeeks. I can feel my own

blood run hot beneath myskin,poundinginmyears.

“Don’t be too long,” hesays, tearing his eyes awayfrommetolookatCal.

Cal barely smirks. “Youact like I’ve never done thisbefore.”

The brothers share achuckle, laughing just foreach other like I’ve seenmybrothers do a thousand timesbefore. When the door shuts

behind Maven, leaving mewithCal,Ican’thelpbutfeela little less animosity towardtheprinces.

Cal’s room is twice thesize ofmine but so clutteredit seems smaller. Armor anduniformsandcombatsuitsfillthe alcoves along the walls,all hanging from what Iassume are models of Cal’sbody. They tower over melike faceless ghosts, staring

with invisible eyes. Most ofthe armor is light, steel plateandthickfabric,butafewareheavy-duty, meant for battle,not training. One even has ahelmetofshiningmetal,witha tinted glass faceplate. Aninsigniaglittersonthesleeve,sewn into the dark graymaterial. The flaming blackcrownandsilverwings.Whatit means, what the uniformsarefor,whatCalhasdone in

them, I don’t want to thinkabout.

Like Julian, Cal hasstacksofbookspiledallover,spilling out in little rivers ofinkandpaper.Theyaren’tasold as Julian’s though—mostlook newly bound, typed outand reprintedonplastic-linedsheets to preserve thewords.And all are written inCommon, the language ofNorta, the Lakelands, and

Piedmont. While Caldisappears into his closet,stripping off the rest of hisarmor as he goes, I sneak aglanceathisbooks.Thesearestrange, full of maps,diagrams,andcharts—guidesto the terrible art ofwarfare.Eachoneismoreviolentthanthe last, detailing militarymovementsfromrecentyearsand even before. Greatvictories, bloody defeats,

weapons,andmaneuvers, it’senough to make my headspin.Cal’s notes inside themare worse, outlining thetactics he favors,which onesareworth the cost of life. Inthe pictures, tiny squaresrepresent soldiers, but I seemy brothers and Kilorn andeveryonelikethem.

Beyond thebooks,by thewindow, there’s a little tableand two chairs. On the

tabletop, a game board liesready,piecesalreadyinplace.I don’t recognize it, but Iknow it was meant forMaven. They must meetnightly, to play and laugh asbrothersdo.

“We won’t have verylong to visit,” Cal calls out,makingme jump. I glance atthe closet, catching sight ofhis tall, muscled back as hepulls a shirt on. There are

more bruises, and scars aswell,eventhoughI’msurehehas access to an army ofhealers ifhewants them.Forsome reason, he’s chosen tokeepthescars.

“As long as I get to seemy family,” I answer back,maneuveringmyself away soIdon’tkeepstaringathim.

Cal emerges, this timefullydressedinplainclothes.Afteramoment, I realize it’s

the same thing he wore thenight I met him. I can’tbelieve I didn’t see him forwhat he was from thebeginning: a wolf in sheep’sclothing. And now I’m thesheeppretendingtobeawolf.

Weleavetheresidencefloorsquickly, moving downward.Eventually, Cal turns acorner, directing us into awide concrete room. “Just in

here.”Itlookslikesomekindof

storage facility, filled withrows of strange shapescovered in canvas sheets.Somearebig,somearesmall,butallarehidden.

“It’s a dead end,” Iprotest. There’s no way outbuttogothewaywecamein.

“Yes,Mare,Ibroughtyouto a dead end,” he sighs,walking down a particular

row. The sheets ripple as hepasses,andIglimpseshiningmetalunderneath.

“More armor?” I poke atone of the shapes. “I wasgoing to say, you shouldprobably get some more.Didn’t seem like you hadenough upstairs. Actually,you might want to put someon. My brothers are prettyhuge and like to beat onpeople.” Though, judging by

Cal’s book collection andmuscles,hecanholdhisown.Not to mention the wholecontrolling-firething.

He just shakes his head.“IthinkI’llbefinewithoutit.Besides,IlooklikeaSecurityofficerinthatstuff.Wedon’twant your family getting thewrongidea,dowe?”

“What idea do we wantthemtoget?Idon’tthinkI’mexactly allowed to introduce

youproperly.”“Iworkwithyou,wegot

a leave pass for the night.Simple,” he says, shrugging.Lyingcomessoeasilytothesepeople.

“Sowhywouldyoucomewith me? What’s the storythere?”

With a sly grin, Calgestures to the canvas shapenexttohim.“I’myourride.”

Hethrowsbackthesheet,

revealing a gleamingcontraption of metal andblack paint. Two treadedwheels, mirrored chrome,lights, a long leather seat—it’satransportlikeI’veneverseen.

“It’s a cycle,” Cal says,runningahandoverthesilverhandlebars like a proudfather. He knows and loveseveryinchofthemetalbeast.“Fast, agile, and it can go

wheretransportscan’t.”“It looks—like a death

trap,” I finally say, unable tomaskmytrepidation.

Laughing, he pulls ahelmet from the back of theseat. I sure hope he doesn’texpect me to wear it, muchless ride this thing. “That’swhatFathersaid,andColonelMacanthos. They won’tmass-produce for the armiesyet, but I’ll win them over.

Haven’t crashed once since Iperfectedthewheels.”

“You built it?” I say,incredulous, but he shrugslikeit’snothing.“Wow.”

“Just wait until you rideit,” he says, holding out thehelmet to me. As if on cue,the far wall jolts, its metalmechanisms groaningsomewhere, and begins toslideaway,revealingthedarknightbeyond.

Laughing, I take a stepbackfromthedeathmachine.“That’snothappening.”

But Cal just smirks andswingsonelegoverthecycle,sinking down into the seat.The engine rumbles to lifebeneath him, purring andgrowling with energy. I cansense the battery deep in themachine, powering it on. Itbegs to be let loose, toconsume the long road

between here and home.Home.

“It’s perfectly safe, Ipromise,” he shouts over theengine. The headlight blazeson, illuminating the darknight beyond. Cal’s red-goldeyes meet mine and hestretchesoutahand.“Mare?”

Despite the horriblesinkinginmystomach,Islidethehelmetontomyhead.

I’ve never ridden in anairship, but I know thismustfeellikeflying.Likefreedom.Cal’s cycle eats up thefamiliar road in elegant,arcing curves. He’s a gooddriver,I’llgivehimthat.Theoldroadisfullofbumpsandholes,buthedodgeseachonewith ease, even as my heartrisesinmythroat.Onlywhenwecoasttoastophalfamilefrom town do I realize I’m

holding on to him so tightlyhe has to pry me off. I feelsuddenly cold without hiswarmth, but I push thethoughtaway.

“Fun, right?” he says,poweringdownthecycle.Mylegsandbackarealreadysorefrom the strange, small seat,buthehopsoffwithanextraspringinhisstep.

With some difficulty, Islide off as well. My knees

wobble a bit, more from thepounding heartbeat stillthrumming in my ears, but IthinkI’mokay.

“It won’t be my firstchoiceintransportation.”

“Remind me to take youup in an airjet sometime.You’ll stick to cycles afterthat,”herepliesasherollsthecycle off the road, into thecover of the woods. Afterthrowing a few leafy

branches over it, he standsback to admire hishandiwork. If I didn’t knowexactly where to look, Iwouldn’tnoticethecyclewasthereatall.

“Youdothisalot,Isee.”Calturnsbacktome,one

hand in his pocket. “Palacescanget...stuffy.”

“And crowded bars, Redbars, aren’t?” I ask, pushingthe topic. But he starts

walking toward the village,settingafastpacelikehecanoutrunthequestion.

“I don’t go out to drink,Mare.”

“So,what, you just catchpickpockets and hand outjobswilly-nilly?”

When he stops short andwhirls around, I knock intohis chest, feeling for amoment the solid weightbehind his frame. Then I

realizehe’slaughingdeeply.“Did you just say willy-

nilly?” he says betweenchuckles.

My face blushes redbeneath my makeup, and Igive him a little shove.Veryinappropriate, my mindchides. “Just answer thequestion.”

Hissmileremains,thoughthe laughter fades away. “Idon’t do this formyself,” he

says. “You have tounderstand, Mare. I don’t—I’mgoingtobekingoneday.I don’t have the luxury ofbeingselfish.”

“I’d think thekingwouldbe the only personwith thatluxury.”

He shakes his head, hiseyes forlorn as they runoverme.“Iwishthatweretrue.”

Cal’s fist clenches openand closed, and I can almost

seetheflamesonhisskin,hotandrisingwithhisanger.Butit passes, leaving only anember of regret in his eyes.When he finally startswalking again, it’s at amoreforgivingpace.

“A king should know hispeople. That’s why I sneakout,”hemurmurs. “Ido it inthecapitaltoo,andatthewarfront.Iliketoseehowthingsreally are in the kingdom,

instead of being told byadvisers and diplomats.That’s what a good kingwoulddo.”

Heacts likehe shouldbeashamed for wanting to be agood leader. Maybe, in theeyes of his father and allthose other fools, that’s theway it should be. Strengthandpower are thewordsCalhasbeenraisedtoknow.Notgoodness. Not kindness. Not

empathy or bravery orequalityoranythingelse thatarulershouldstrivefor.

“And what do you see,Cal?”Iask,gesturing towardthe village coming into viewbetween the trees. My heartjumps in my chest, knowingI’msoclose.

“Iseeaworldontheedgeofablade.Withoutbalance,itwill fall,” he sighs, knowingit’s not the answer Iwant to

hear. “You don’t know howprecarious things are, howclose this world is to fallingback into ruin. My fatherdoes everything he can tokeep us all safe, and so willI.”

“My world is already inruin,”Isay,kickingatthedirtroad beneath us. All aroundus, the trees seem to open,revealing the muddy place Icall home. Compared to the

Hall,itmustlooklikeaslum,like a hell.Why can’t he seethat?“Yourfatherkeepsyourpeoplesafe,notmine.”

“Changing the world hascosts,Mare,”hesays.“Manywould die, Reds most of all.And in the end, therewouldn’t be victory, not foryou. You don’t know thebiggerpicture.”

“So tell me.” I bristle,hating his words. “Show me

thebiggerpicture.”“The Lakelands, they’re

likeus,amonarchy,nobles,aSilver elite to rule the rest.And the Piedmont princes,our own allies, would neverbackanationwhereRedsareequal.PrairieandTiraxesarethe same. Even if Nortachanged, the rest of thecontinentwouldnotletitlast.We would be invaded,divided,tornapart.Morewar,

moredeath.”I remember Julian’smap,

the breadth of the greaterworld beyond our country.AllcontrolledbySilverswithnowhereforustoturn.“Whatif you’re wrong? What ifNorta is the beginning? Thechange the others need?Youdon’t know where freedomleads.”

Cal has no answer forthat, and we fall into bitter

silence.“This is it,”Imutter,stopping under the familiaroutlineofmyhouse.

My feet are silent on theporch, a far cry from Cal’sheavy, stomping steps thatmake thewoodbeams creak.His familiar heat rolls offhim, and for a split second Iimagine him sending thehouseupinflames.Hesensesmy unease and puts a warmhandonmyshoulder,butthat

doesnothingtosettleme.“I can wait below if you

want,” he whispers, takingme by surprise. “We don’twant to chance themrecognizingme.”

“They won’t. Eventhough my brothers served,theyprobablywouldn’tknowyou from a bedpost.” Shadewould,Ithought,butShadeissmart enough to keep hismouth shut. “Besides, you

saidyouwanttoknowwhat’snotworthfightingfor.”

With that I pull open thedoor, stepping through to thehome that is no longer myown.Itfeelsliketakingastepbackintime.

The house ripples with achorus of snores, not justfrommy father but from thelumpy shape in the sittingarea as well. Bree slumps intheoverstuffedchair,apileof

muscleandthinblankets.Hisdark hair is still closelyshavedinthearmystyle,andthere are scars on his armsand face, testaments to histimefighting.Hemust’velostabetwithTramy,whotossesandturnsupinmycot.Shadeis nowhere to be seen, buthe’sneverbeenoneforsleep.Probably out prowling thevillage, looking up oldgirlfriends.

“Riseandshine.”Ilaugh,ripping the blanket off Breeinasmoothmotion.

He crashes to the floor,probably hurting the floormore than himself, and rollstoastopatmyfeet.Forhalfasecond,itlookslikehemightfallbackasleep.

Then he blinks at me,bleary-eyed and confused. Inshort,hisusualself.“Mare?”

“Shut your face, Bree,

people are trying to sleep!”Tramygroansinthedark.

“ALL OF YOU,QUIET!”Dad roars fromhisbedroom,makingusalljump.

I never realized howmuch I missed this. Breeblinksthesleepfromhiseyesandhugsmetohim,laughingdeep in his chest. A nearbythunkannouncesTramyashejumps from the upper loft,landing beside us on nimble

feet.“It’s Mare!” he shouts,

pullingmeup from the floorand into his arms. He’sthinner thanBreebutnot theweedy string bean Iremember. There are hardknots of muscle under myhands;thelastfewyearshavenotbeeneasyforhim.

“Good to see you,Tramy,” I breathe againsthim, feeling like I might

burst.The bedroom door bangs

open, revealing Mom in atattered bathrobe. She openshermouth to scold the boys,but the sight of me kills herwords. Instead, she smilesandclapsherhands together.“Oh, you’ve finally come tovisit!”

Dad follows her,wheezing and wheeling hischair into the main room.

Gisa is the last to wake up,but she only pokes her headout over the loft ledge,lookingdown.

Tramy finally letsmego,puttingmebackdownnexttoCal,who’sdoingawonderfuljoblookingawkwardandoutofplace.

“Heardyoucavedandgota job,” Tramy teases, pokingmeintheribs.

Bree chuckles, ruffling

myhair.“Thearmywouldn’twant her anyway, she’d robherlegionblind.”

Ishovehimwithasmile.“Seems the army doesn’twant you either. Discharged,eh?”

Dad answers for them,wheeling forward. “Somelottery, the letter said. Wonan honorable discharge fortheBarrowboys.Fullpensiontoo.” I can tell he doesn’t

believeawordof it,butDaddoesn’t press the subject.Mom,ontheotherhand,eatsitrightup.

“Brilliant, isn’t it? Thegovernment finally doingsomething for us,” she says,kissing Bree on the cheek.“And now you, with a job.”TheprideradiatesoffherlikeI’ve never seen—usually shesavesallof it forGisa.She’sproud of a lie. “It’s about

time this family came intosomeluck.”

Upaboveus,Gisascoffs.I don’t blame her. My luckbroke her hand and herfuture. “Yes, we’re verylucky,” she huffs, finallymovingtojoinus.

Her going is slow,movingdowntheladderwithone hand.When she reachesthe floor, I canseeher splintis wrapped in colored cloth.

With a pang of sadness, Irealize it’s a piece of herbeautifulembroiderythatwillneverbefinished.

Ireachouttohugher,butshe pulls away, her eyes onCal.Sheseemstobetheonlyone to notice him. “Who’sthat?”

Flushing, I realize I’vealmost forgotten himcompletely. “Oh, this is Cal.He’sanotherservantupatthe

Hallwithme.”“Hi,” hemanages, giving

astupid,littlewave.Mom giggles like a

schoolgirl and waves back,her gaze lingering on hismuscled arms. But Dad andmy brothers aren’t socharmed.

“You’re not from theseparts,”Dadgrowls,staringatCal like he’s some kind ofbug.“Icansmellitonyou.”

“That’sjusttheHall,Dad—,”Iprotest,butCalcutsmeoff.

“I’m from Harbor Bay,”he says,making sure to drophis r’s in the usual Harboraccent. “I started serving atOcean Hill, the royalresidenceoutthere,andnowItravel with the pack whentheymove.”Heglancesatmesideways, a knowing look inhiseye.“Alotoftheservants

dothat.”Mom draws a rattled

breath and reaches for myarm.“Willyou?Doyouhavetogowiththosepeoplewhentheyleave?”

Iwant to tell them that Ididn’t choose this, that I’mnot walking away willingly.But I have to lie, for theirsake. “It was the onlyposition they had. Besides,it’sgoodmoney.”

“I think I’ve got a prettygood idea what’s going on,”Bree growls, face-to-facewith Cal. To his credit, Calbarelybatsaneyeathim.

“Nothing’s going on,” hesays coolly, meeting Bree’sglare with equal fire in hiseyes. “Mare chose to workfor the palace. She signed acontractforayearofservice,andthat’sit.”

With a grunt, Bree backs

away. “I liked the Warrenboybetter,”hegrumbles.

“Stop being a child,Bree,” I snap. My momflinches at my harsh voice,like she’s forgotten what Isound like after only threeweeks. Strangely, her eyesswim with tears. She’sforgetting you. That’s whyshewantsyoutostay.Soshedoesn’tforget.

“Mom, don’t cry,” I say,

stepping forward to hug her.Shefeelssothininmyarms,thinner than I remember. Ormaybe I just never noticedhowfrailshe’sbecome.

“It’s not just you, dear,it’s—” She looks away fromme,toDad.There’sapaininher eyes, a pain I don’tunderstand. The others can’tbeartolookather.EvenDadstares at his useless feet. Agrim weight settles on the

house.And then I realizewhat’s

goingon,what they’re tryingtoprotectmefrom.

My voice shakes when Ispeak, asking a question Idon’t want to know theanswerto.“Where’sShade?”

Mom crumples in onherself, barelymaking it to achair at the kitchen tablebeforeshedevolvesintosobs.BreeandTramycan’tbearto

watch, both turning away.Gisadoesn’tmove,staringatthe floor like she wants todrown in it. No one speaks,leavingonlythesoundofmymother’s tears and myfather’s labored breathing tofill the holemybrother onceoccupied. My brother, myclosestbrother.

I fall backward, almostmissingastepinmyanguish,butCalsteadiesme.Iwishhe

wouldn’t.Iwanttofalldown,to feel something hard andreal so the pain in my headwon’thurtsobadly.Myhandstraystomyear,grazingoverthe three stones I hold sodearly. The third, Shade’sstone, feels cold against myskin.

“We didn’t want to tellyou in a letter,” Gisawhispers, picking at hersplint. “He died before the

dischargecame.”The urge to electrify

something, to pour my rageand sorrow into a single boltofbitingpower,hasneverfeltso strong. Control it, I tellmyself. I can’t believe IwasworriedaboutCalburningthehouse down; lightning candestroyaseasilyasflame.

Gisa fights tears, forcingherself tosaythewords.“Hetried to run away. He was

executed.Beheaded.”My legs give way so

quickly even Cal doesn’thave a chance to catchme. Ican’t hear, I can’t see, I canonly feel. Sorrow, shock,pain, the whole worldspinning around me. Thelightbulbs buzz withelectricity, screaming at meso loudly I think my headmight split. The fridgecracklesinthecorner,itsold,

bleeding battery pulsing likeadyingheart.Theytauntme,teaseme, trying tomakemecrack.ButIwon’t.Iwon’t.

“Mare,” Cal breathes inmy ear, his arms warmaround me, but he might aswell be talking to me fromacrossanocean.“Mare!”

I heave a painful gasp,tryingtocatchmybreath.Mycheeks feel wet, though Idon’t remember crying.

Executed. My blood boilsundermy skin. It’s a lie.Hedidn’t run. He was in theGuard. And they found out.They killed him for it. Theymurderedhim.

Ihaveneverknownangerlike this. Not when the boysleft,notwhenKilorncametome. Not even when theybrokeGisa’shand.

An earsplitting whinescreeches through the house,

as the fridge, the lightbulbs,and the wiring in the wallskick into high gear.Electricity hums, making mefeel alive and angry anddangerous.Now I’mcreatingthe energy, pushing my ownstrength through the housejustlikeJuliantaughtme.

Cal yells, shaking me,trying to get throughsomehow. But he can’t. Thepower is in me and I don’t

want to let go. It feels betterthanpain.

Glassrainsdownonusasthe lightbulbs explode,poppinglikecorninaskillet.Pop pop pop. It almostdrownsoutMom’sscream.

Someone pulls me tomyfeet with rough strength.Their hands go to my face,holding me still as theyspeak.Nottocomfortme,nottoempathize, but to snapme

out of it. I would know thatvoiceanywhere.

“Mare, pull yourselftogether!”

I look up to see cleargreen eyes and a face full ofworry.

“Kilorn.”“Knew you’d stumble

back eventually,” hemumbles.“Keptaneyeout.”

His hands are roughagainstmyskin,butcalming.

Hebringsmebacktoreality,to aworldwheremybrotheris dead. The last survivinglightbulb swings above us,barely illuminating the roomandmystunnedfamily.

But that’s not the onlything lighting up thedarkness.

Purple-whitesparksdancearound my hands, growingweaker by the moment, butplain as day.My lightning. I

won’t be able to lie my wayoutofthisone.

Kilornpullsmetoachair,his face a storm cloud ofconfusion. The others onlystare, and with a pang ofsadness, I realize they’reafraid.ButKilornisn’tafraidatall—he’sangry.

“What did they do toyou?” he rumbles, his handsinchesfrommine.Thesparksfade away entirely, leaving

justskinandshakingfingers.“They didn’t do

anything.” I wish this wastheir fault. I wish I couldblamethisonsomeoneelse.Ilook over Kilorn’s head,meeting Cal’s eyes.Something releases in him,and he nods, communicatingwithout words. I don’t havetolieaboutthis.

“ThisiswhatIam.”Kilorn’s frown deepens.

“Are you one of them?”I’venever heard so much anger,somuchdisgust,forcedintoasingle sentence. Itmakesmefeellikedying.“Areyou?”

Mom recovers first and,without a glimmer of fear,takesmy hand. “Mare ismydaughter, Kilorn,” she says,fixinghimwitha frighteningstareIdidn’tknowshecouldmuster.“Weallknowthat.”

My family murmurs in

agreement, rallying to myside, but Kilorn remainsunconvinced.Hestaresatmelike I’m a stranger, like wehaven’tknowneachotherallourlives.

“Givemeaknifeand I’llsettle this right now,” I say,glaring back at him. “I’llshowyouwhatcolorIbleed.”

This calms him a bit andhepullsback.“Ijust—Idon’tunderstand.”

Thatmakestwoofus.“I think I’m with Kilorn

on this one. We know whoyou are, Mare, but—” Breestumbles, searching for therightthingtosay.He’sneverbeenoneforwords.“How?”

I barely know what tosay, but I do my best toexplain.Again, I’mpainfullyaware of Cal’s presence,always listening, so I leaveout the Guard and Julian’s

findings, to lay out the lastthree weeks as plainly aspossible. Pretending to beSilver, being betrothed to aprince, learning to controlmyself—it soundspreposterous, but they listenintently.

“We don’t know how orwhy,justthatthisis,”Ifinish,holding outmyother hand. Idon’t miss Tramy flinchaway.“Wemightneverknow

whatthismeans.”Mom’s hand tightens on

mine in a display of support.The small comfort doeswonders for me. I’m stillangry, still devastatingly sad,but the need to destroysomething fades. I’mgainingback some semblance ofcontrol, enough to keepmyselfincheck.

“I think it’s a miracle,”shemurmurs, forcingasmile

for my sake. “We’ve alwayswanted better for you, andnow, we’re getting it. Breeand Tramy are safe, Gisawon’t have toworry,we canlive happy, and you”—herwatery eyes meet mine—“you, my dear, will besomeone special. What morecanamotherask?”

I wish her words weretrue, but I nod anyway,smiling for my mother and

myfamily. I’mgettingbetterat lying, and they seem tobelieve me. But not Kilorn.Hestillseethes,tryingtoholdbackanotheroutburst.

“What’s he like, theprince?” Mom prods.“Maven?”

Dangerous ground. I canfeel Cal listening, waiting tohearwhatIhavetosayabouthis younger brother. Whatcan I say? That he’s kind?

That I’m beginning to likehim?ThatIstilldon’tknowifI can trust him? Or worse,that I cannever trustanyoneagain? “He’s not what Iexpected.”

Gisanotesmydiscomfortand turns toward Cal. “Sowho’sthis,yourbodyguard?”shesays,changingthesubjectwiththeslightestwink.

“I am,” Cal says,answering forme.He knows

I don’t want to lie to myfamily, notmore than I haveto. “And I’m sorry, but wehavetobegoingsoon.”

His words are like atwisting knife, but I mustobeythem.“Yes.”

Mom stands with me,holding on to my hand sotightly I’m afraid it mightbreak. “We won’t sayanything,ofcourse.”

“Not a word,” Dad

agrees. My siblings nod aswell,swearingtobesilent.

But Kilorn’s face fallsinto a dark scowl. For somereason,he’sbecomesoangryand I can’t for the lifeofmesay why.But I’m angry too.Shade’sdeathstillweighsonme like a terrible stone.“Kilorn?”

“Yeah, I won’t talk,” hespits. Before I can stop him,hegetsupfromhischairand

sweeps out in a whirlwindthat spins the air. The doorslams behind him, shakingthe walls. I’m used toKilorn’s emotions, his raremoments of despair, but thisrage is something new fromhim. I don’t know how todealwithit.

My sister’s touch bringsme back, reminding me thatthis is good-bye. “This is agift,”shewhispersinmyear.

“Don’twasteit.”“You’llcomeback,won’t

you?” Bree says, and Gisapullsaway.For the first timesince he left for war, I seefear in his eyes. “You’re aprincess now, you get tomaketherules.”

Iwish.Cal and I exchange

glances.Icantellbythetightset of his mouth and thedarknessinhiseyeswhatmy

answershouldbe.“I’ll try,” I whisper, my

voicebreaking.Onemore liecan’thurt.

When we reach the edge ofthe Stilts, Gisa’s good-byestillhauntsme.Therewasnoblame in her eyes, eventhough I’ve taken everythingfromher.Herlastwordsechoon the wind, drowning outeverything else.Don’t waste

it.“I’m sorry about your

brother,” Cal blurts out. “Ididn’tknowhe—”

“—was already dead?”Executed for desertion.Another lie. The rage risesagain, and I don’t evenwantto control it. But what can Idoaboutit?WhatcanIdotoavenge my brother, or eventrytosavetheothers?

Don’twasteit.

“Ineedtomakeonemorestop.”BeforeCalcanprotest,I put on my best smile. “Itwon’t take long at all, Ipromise.”

To my surprise, he nodsslowlyinthedark.

“AjobattheHall,that’sveryprestigious.”Will chortles asItakeaseatinsidehiswagon.The old blue candle stillburns, casting shifting light

around us. As I suspected,Farleyislonggone.

When I’m sure the doorandwindowsareshut,Idropmy voice. “I’m not workingthere,Will.They—”

To my surprise, Willwaves a hand at me. “Oh, Iknowallthat.Tea?”

“Uh, no.” My wordsshake with shock. “How didyou—?”

“The royal monkeys

choseaqueenthispastweek,of course they had tobroadcast it in the Silvercities,” a voice says frombehind a curtain. The figurestepsout,revealingnotFarleybut what looks like abeanpole inhumanform.Hishead scrapes the ceiling,makinghimduckawkwardly.His crimson hair is long,matching theredsashdrapedacrosshisbodyfromshoulder

to hip. It’s clasped with thesame sun badge Farley woreinherbroadcast.And Idon’tmiss the gun belt around hiswaist, full of shiny bulletsand a pair of pistols. He’sScarletGuardtoo.

“You’vebeenallovertheSilverscreens,LadyTitanos.”Hesaysmytitle likeacurse.“You and that Samos girl.Tellme, is she as unpleasantasshelooks?”

“This is Tristan, one ofFarley’s lieutenants,” Willpipes in. He turns a chidingeye on him. “Tristan, begentle.”

“Why?” I scoff.“Evangeline Samos is abloodthirstyjerk.”

Smiling,Tristan throws asmuglookatWill.

“They aren’t allmonkeys,” I add quietly,remembering Maven’s kind

wordsearliertoday.“Are you talking about

the prince you’re engaged toor the one waiting in thewoods?” Will asks calmly,like he’s asking about thepriceofflour.

In stark contrast, Tristanerupts, vaulting out of hisseat. I beat him to the door,two hands outstretched.Thankfully I keep myself incheck.ThelastthingIneedis

to electrify a member of theScarletGuard.

“You brought a Silverhere?”hehissesdownatme.“The prince? Do you knowwhatwecoulddo ifwe tookhim in? What we couldbargainfor?”

Though he towers overme,Idon’tbackdown.“Youleavehimalone.”

“A few weeks in the lapofluxuryandyourbloodisas

silver as theirs,” he spits,looking like he wants to killme.“Yougoingtoelectrocutemetoo?”

Thatstings,andheknowsit. I drop my hands, afraidthey might betray me. “I’mnot protecting him, I’mprotecting you, you stupidfool.Calisasoldierbornandbred, and he could burn thiswhole village down if hereallywantedto.”Notthathe

would.Ihope.Tristan’s hand strays to

his gun. “I’d like to see himtry.”

ButWill lays a wrinkledhandonhisarm.Thetouchisenough to make the rebeldeflate. “That’s enough,” hewhispers. “What did youcome here for,Mare?Kilornis safe, and so are yoursiblings.”

I heave a breath, still

staringdownTristan.He justthreatened to kidnapCal andholdhimforransom.Andforwhatever reason, the thoughtof such a thing unsettles metomycore.

“My—” One word outand I’m already struggling.“Shade was part of theGuard.” It’s not a questionanymore, but a truth. Willlowers his gaze, apologetic,and Tristan even hangs his

head.“Theykilledhimforit.Theykilledmybrother,andIhave to act like it doesn’tbotherme.”

“You’re dead if youdon’t.”

“I know that. I’ll saywhatevertheywantwhenthetimecomes.But—”Myvoicecatchesalittle,ontheedgeofthis new path. “I’m in thepalace, the center of theirworld. I’m quick, I’m quiet,

andIcanhelpthecause.”Tristan sucks in a ragged

breath,pullingbacktohisfullheight. Despite his angerearlier, there’s nowsomething like pride shininginhiseyes.“Youwanttojoinup.”

“Ido.”Willclencheshisjaw,his

stare piercing throughme. “Ihope you know what you’recommitting to.This isn’t just

my war or Farley’s or theScarlet Guard’s—it’s yours.Untiltheveryend.Andnottoavenge your brother but toavengeusall.Tofightfortheones before, and to save theonesyettocome.”

His gnarled hand reachesfor mine and for the firsttime, Inoticea tattooaroundhiswrist:aredband.Liketheones they make us wear.Except nowhe’swearing his

forever. It’s part of him, likethebloodinourveins.

“Are you with us, MareBarrow?” he says, his handclosingovermine.Morewar,more death, Cal said. Butthere’s a chancehe’swrong.There’s a chance we canchangeit.

My fingers tighten,holdingontoWill.Icanfeelthe weight of my action, theimportancebehindit.

“I’mwithyou.”“We will rise,” he

breathes, in unison withTristan. I remember thewords and speak with them.“Redasthedawn.”

In the flickeringcandlelight,ourshadowslooklikemonstersonthewalls.

WhenIjoinbackupwithCalat the edge of town, I feellightersomehow,emboldened

by my decision and theprospect of what’s to come.Cal walks alongside me,glancing over occasionally,but says nothing. Where Iwould poke and prod andforciblypullanansweroutofsomeone,Calis thecompleteopposite. Maybe it’s amilitarytactichepickedupinone of his books: let theenemycometoyou.

Because that’swhat Iam

now.Hisenemy.Heperplexesme,justlike

hisbrother.Bothof themarekind, even though theyknowI’m Red, even though theyshouldn’t even seeme at all.But Cal took me home, andMaven was good to me,wanting to help. They arestrangeboys.

Whenweenterthewoodsagain, Cal’s demeanorchanges, hardening to

something serious. “I’ll haveto talk with the queen aboutchangingyourschedule.”

“Why?”“You almost exploded in

there,” he says gently.“You’ll have to go intoTraining with us, to makesure something like thatdoesn’thappenagain.”

Julianistrainingme.Buteven the little voice in myhead knows Julian is no

substitute for what Cal,Maven, and Evangeline gothrough.IfIlearnedevenhalfof what they know, whoknowswhathelpIcouldbetothe Guard? To Shade’smemory?

“Well,ifitgetsmeoutofProtocol,Iwon’tsayno.”

Suddenly,Caljumpsbackfromhiscycle.Hishandsareon fire and an equal, blazinglightburnsinhiseyes.

“Someone’s watchingus.”

Idon’tbotherquestioninghim. Cal’s soldier’s sense issharp,butwhatcouldthreatenhim here? What could hepossibly be afraid of in thewoods of a sleepy, poorvillage? A village crawlingwithrebels,Iremindmyself.

But instead of Farley orarmedrevolutionaries,Kilornsteps out of the leaves. I

forgot how sly he is, howeasily he can move throughdarkness.

Cal’s hands extinguish inapuffofsmoke.“Oh,you.”

Kilorntearshiseyesawayfrom me, glaring at Cal. Heinclines his head in acondescending bow. “Excuseme,YourHighness.”

Instead of trying to denyit, Cal stands a littlestraighter, looking like the

king he was born to be. Hedoesn’t reply and goes backto freeing his cycle from theleaves.But I feelhiseyesonme, watching every secondthat passes between Kilornandme.

“You’re really doingthis?” Kilorn says, lookinglike a wounded animal.“You’rereallyleaving?Tobeoneofthem?”

The words sting more

than a slap. This is not achoice,Iwanttotellhim.

“You sawwhathappenedin there,what Icando.Theycan help me.” Even I’msurprisedathoweasilytheliecomes.OnedayImightevenbe able to lie to myself, totrick my mind into thinkingI’m happy. “I’m where I’msupposedtobe.”

He shakes his head, onehandgrabbingmyarmlikehe

can pull me back into thepast,whereourworriesweresimple. “You’re supposed tobehere.”

“Mare.” Cal waitspatiently, leaning against theseatofthecycle,buthisvoiceisfirm,awarning.

“I have to go.” I try topushpastKilorn,toleavehimbehind, but he won’t let me.He’s always been strongerthan me. And as much as I

wanttolethimholdontome,itjustcan’tbe.

“Mare,please—”A wave of heat pulses

againstus,likeastrongbeamofsunlight.

“Let her go,” Calrumbles, standing over me.Theheatrollsoffhim,almostrippling the air. The calm hefights to maintain thins,threateningtocomeundone.

Kilorn scoffs in his face,

itching for a fight. But he’slikeme;we’re thieves,we’rerats.Weknowwhen to fightandwhentorun.Reluctantly,he pulls back, letting hisfingers trail along my arm.This might be the last timeweseeeachother.

The air cools, but Caldoesn’t step back. I’m hisbrother’s betrothed—he hastobeprotectiveofme.

“You bargained for me

too, to save me fromconscription,” Kilorn sayssoftly, finally understandingthe price I’ve paid. “Youhave a bad habit of trying tosaveme.”

I can barely nod, and Ihave to pull the helmet ontomy head to hide the tearswelling inmyeyes.Numbly,I followCal to thecycle andslide onto the seat behindhim.

Kilorn backs away,flinchingwhenthecyclerevsup.Thenhesmirksatme,hisfeatures curling into anexpression that used tomakemewanttopunchhim.

“I’ll tell Farley you saidhello.”

The cycle growls like abeast, tearing me away fromKilorn and the Stilts andmyold life. Fear curls throughme like a poison, until I’m

scared from head to toe. Butnot formyself.Notanymore.I’mscaredforKilorn,fortheidioticthinghe’sgoingtodo.

He’sgoingtofindFarley.Andhe’sgoingtojoinher.

FIFTEEN

Thenextmorning,Iopenmyeyes to see a shaded figurestandingbymybedside.Thisis it. I left, I broke the rules,and they’re going to kill meforit.

Butnotwithoutafight.Before the figure gets a

chance,Iflyoutofbed,readytodefendmyself.Mymuscles

tense while the delightfulbuzzing comes to life insideme. But instead of anassassin, I’m staring at a reduniform.And I recognize thewomanwearingit.

Walsh looks the same asshe did before, though Icertainly don’t. She standsnexttoametalcartfilledwithtea and bread and anythingelse I might want forbreakfast. Ever the dutiful

servant, shekeepshermouthclamped shut, but her eyesscream at me. She stares atmy hand, at the now too-familiar sparks creepingaround my fingers. I shakethem away, brushing off theveins of light until theydisappearbackintomyskin.

“I’msosorry,”Iexclaim,jumpingawayfromher.Still,shedoesn’tspeak.“Walsh—”

But she busies herself

with the food. Then, to mygreat surprise, she mouthsfive words to me. They arewordsI’mbeginningtoknowlike a prayer—or a curse.Rise,Redasthedawn.

Before I can respond,beforemyshockcanregister,Walsh presses a cup of teaintomyhand.

“Wait—” I reach out forher,butshedodgesmyhand,sweepingintoalowbow.

“My lady,” she says,sharply ending ourconversation.

I lethergo,watchingherback out of the room untilthere’s nothing left but theechoofherunspokenwords.

WalshisintheGuardtoo.The teacup feels cold in

myhand.Strangelycold.I look down to find it’s

notfullofteabutwater.Andat the bottom of the cup, a

pieceofpaperbleedsink.Theink swirls as I read themessage,thewaterleechingitaway,erasinganytrace,untilthere’s nothing left butcloudy, gray liquid and ablank curl of paper. Noevidence of my first act ofrebellion.

Themessageisn’thardtoremember. It’s only oneword.

Midnight.

This knowledge that Ihave a connection to thegroup so close by shouldcomfort me, but for somereason, I find myselfshivering. Maybe camerasaren’t the only thingswatchingmehere.

Andit’snottheonlynotewaiting for me. My newschedule sits on thenightstand, written in thequeen’s maddeningly perfect

handwriting.

Your schedule haschanged.

0630—Breakfast /0700—Training /1000—Protocol

1130—Luncheon /1300—Protocol /1400—Lessons

1800—Dinner.

Lucas will escortyoutoall.Scheduleisnotnegotiable.

HRH QueenElara.

“So, they’ve finally bumpedyou up to Training?” Lucasgrinsatme,ararebitofprideshining through as he leadsme to my first session.“Either you’ve been very

goodorverybad.”“Alittlebitofboth.”More bad, I think,

rememberingmyepisode lastnight at home. I know thenew schedule is Cal’s doing,but I didn’t expect him towork so fast. Truthfully, I’mexcited for Training. If it’sanything likewhat I sawCaland Maven go through, theability practice in particular,I’ll be hopelessly far behind,

butatleastI’llhavesomeoneto talk to. And if I’m reallylucky, Evangeline will bedeathly ill and stuck in bedfor the rest of her miserablelife.

Lucas shakes his head,chuckling.“Beprepared.Theinstructors are famous forbeing able to break even thestrongest soldiers. Theywon’ttakewelltoyoursass.”

“Idon’ttakewelltobeing

broken,” I retort. “What wasyourTraininglike?”

“Well, I went straight tothearmywhenIwasnine,somy experience was a bitdifferent,” he says, eyesdarkeningatthememory.

“Nine?” The thoughtseems impossible to me.Abilities or not, this can’t betrue.

ButLucasshrugslikeit’snothing.“Thefrontisthebest

place for training. Even theprinces were trained at thefront,foratime.”

“But you’re here now,” Isay. My eyes linger onLucas’suniform,ontheblackand silver of Security.“You’re not a soldieranymore.”

Forthefirsttime,Lucas’sdry smile disappearscompletely. “It wears onyou,” he admits, more to

himselfthantome.“Menarenot meant to be at war forlong.”

“AndwhataboutReds?”Ihearmyselfask.Bree,Tramy,Shade, Dad, Kilorn’s father.And a thousand others. Amillion others. “Can theystand war better thanSilvers?”

We reach the door to thetraining hall before Lucasfinally answers, looking a

little uncomfortable. “That’sthe way the world works.Redsserve,Redswork,Redsfight. It’s what they’re goodat. It’swhat they’remeant todo.”Ihavetobitemytonguetokeepmyselffromshoutingat him. “Not everyone isspecial.”

Anger boils in me, but Idon’t say a word againstLucas. Losing my temper,even with him, won’t be

smiled upon. “I can take itfromhere,”Isaystiffly.

He notes my discomfort,frowning a little. When hespeaks, his voice is low andfast, as if he doesn’twant tobe overheard. “I don’t havethe luxury of questions,” hemutters. His black eyes boreinto mine, full of meaning.“Andneitherdoyou.”

My heart clenches,terrified by his words and

their veiled meaning. Lucasknows there’s more to methan what he’s been told.“Lucas—”

“It’s notmy place to askquestions.” He furrows hisbrow, trying to make meunderstand, trying to put meat ease. “Lady Titanos.” Thetitle sounds firmer than ever,becoming my shield as wellasthequeen’sweapon.

Lucas will not ask

questions. Despite his blackeyes, his Silver blood, hisSamos family, he will notpull at the thread that couldunravelmyexistence.

“Keep to your schedule,my lady.” He pulls back,more formal than I’ve everseenhim.Witha flickofhishead, he gestures to the doorwhere aRed attendantwaits.“I’ll collect you afterTraining.”

“Thankyou,Lucas,”isallIcanmanage.He’sgivenmesomuchmorethanheknows.

Theattendanthandsmeastretchy black suit withpurple and silver stripes. Hepoints me to a tiny room,where I change quickly,slipping out of my usualclothesandintothejumpsuit.It reminds me of my oldclothes, the ones I used backin the Stilts. Worn by time

and movement, but trim andtight enough not to slow medown.

When I enter the traininghall, I’m painfully aware ofeveryonestaringatme,nottomention the dozens ofcameras. The floor feels softand springybeneathmy feet,cushioning each step. Animmenseskylight risesaboveus, showing a blue summerskyfullofcloudstotauntme.

Winding stairs connect theseveral levels cut into thewalls,eachatvaryingheightswith different equipment.There are many windows aswell, one of which I knowopens to Lady Blonos’sclassroom. Where the othersgoorwhomightbewatchingfromthem,Ihavenoidea.

Ishouldbenervousaboutwalking into a room full ofteen warriors, all of them

better trained than me.Instead, I’m thinking abouttheinsufferableicicleofboneand metal known asEvangeline Samos. I barelymake it halfway across thefloorbeforehermouthopens,drippingvenom.

“GraduatedfromProtocolalready? Did you finallymaster the art of sittingwithyour legs crossed?” shesneers, jumping up from a

weight-lifting machine. Hersilver hair is tiedback into acomplicated braid I’d verymuch like to cut off, but thedeathly sharpmetalbladesatherwaistgivemepause.Likeme, like everyone else, shewearsajumpsuitemblazonedwith the colors of her house.Inblackandsilver,shelooksdeadly.

SonyaandElaneflankherwith matching smirks. Now

that they’re not intimidatingme, they seem to be suckinguptothefuturequeenherself.

I do my best to ignorethem all and find myselflookingforMaven.Hesitsina corner, separated from theothers. At least we can bealone together. Whispersfollow me, as more than adozen noble teenagers watchme walk toward him. A fewbow their heads, trying to be

courteous, but most lookcautious. The girls areespeciallyonedge;afterall,Idid take one of their princesaway.

“Tookyou longenough.”Maven chuckles once I sitdownnexttohim.Hedoesn’tseemtobepartofthecrowd,nordoeshewant tobe. “If Ididn’t know any better, I’dsay you were trying to stayawayfromus.”

“Just one person inparticular,” I reply, casting aglance back to Evangeline.She holds court near thetargetwall,where she showsoff for her cronies in adazzling display. Her metalknives sing through the air,digging into the dead centeroftheirtargets.

Mavenwatchesmewatchher, his eyes thoughtful.“When we go back to the

capital,youwon’thavetoseeher so much,” he murmurs.“She and Cal will have theirhands full touring thecountry,fulfillingtheirduties.Andwe’llhaveours.”

The prospect of gettingfar away from Evangeline isexciting,butalsoremindsmeof the steadily ticking clockmovingagainstme.Soon I’llbe forced to leave the Hall,the river valley, and my

familyfarbehind.“Doyouknowwhenyou

—” I stumble, correctingmyself.“Imean,whenwegobacktothecapital?”

“After the Parting Ball.Youweretoldaboutthat?”

“Yes, your mothermentioned it—and LadyBlonos is trying to teachmehowtodance....”Itrailoff,feeling embarrassed. Shetried to teachmea fewsteps

yesterday,butIjustendedupfalling all over myself.Thieving I can do just fine,butdancing is apparentlyoutof my reach. “Key word,trying.”

“Don’t worry, we won’thavetodealwiththeworstofit.”

The thought of dancingterrifiesme,butIswallowthefear.“Whowill?”

“Cal,” he says without

hesitation.“Bigbrotherhastotolerate too many sillyconversationsanddancewitha lot of annoying girls. Iremember last year . . .” Hestopstolaughatthememory.“Sonya Iral spent the entiretime following him around,cutting into dances, trying todraghimawayforsomefun.Ihad to interfere and sufferthroughtwosongswithhertogiveCalsomerespite.”

The thought of the twobrothers united against alegion of desperate girlsmakes me laugh, thinkingabout the lengths theymust’vegoneto,tosaveeachother. But as my smirkspreads,Maven’ssmilefades.

“At least this time, he’llhave Samos hanging off hisarm. The girlswouldn’t darecrossher.”

I snort, remembering her

sharp,bitinggriponmyarm.“PoorCal.”

“And howwas your visityesterday?”hesays,referringto my jaunt home. So Caldidn’tfillhimin.

“Difficult.” It’s the onlyway I know how to describeit. Now my family knowswhat I am, and Kilorn hasthrownhimselftothewolves.Andofcourse,Shadeisdead.“One of my brothers was

executed, just before thereleasecame.”

Heshiftsnexttome,andIexpect him to beuncomfortable. After all, itwas his own peoplewho didit. Instead, he puts a handover mine. “I’m so sorry,Mare. I’m sure he didn’tdeserveit.”

“No, he didn’t,” Iwhisper, remembering whymybrotherdied.NowI’mon

thesamepath.Maven stares at me

intently, like he’s trying toread the secret in my eyes.For once I’m glad forBlonos’s lessons, or else Iwould assume Maven couldread minds as well as thequeen. But no, he’s a burnerand a burner alone. FewSilvers inherit abilities fromtheirmothers,andnoonehasever had more than one

ability.Somysecret,mynewallegiance to the ScarletGuard,ismine.

When he extends a handto help me up, I take it. Allaround us, the others warmup, mostly stretching orjoggingaround theroom,buta few are more impressive.Elane slips in and out ofmyvision as she bends the lightaround herself until shedisappears altogether. A

windweaver boy, Oliver ofHouse Laris, creates aminiaturewhirlwind betweenhishands,stirringuptinybitsof dust. Sonya lazily tradesblowswith Andros Eagrie, ashort but muscular eighteen-year-old. As a silk, Sonya isbrutally skilled and fast andshould be able to best him,butAndrosmatchesherblowfor blow in a violent dance.The Silvers of House Eagrie

are eyes, meaning they canseetheimmediatefuture,andAndros is using his abilitiesto their full extent. Neitherone seems to gain the upperhand, playing a game ofbalanceratherthanstrength.

Just imagine what theycan really do. So strong, sopowerful.And these are onlythe kids. And just like that,my hope evaporates, shiftingintofear.

“Lines,” a voice says,barelyawhisper.

My new instructor enterswithout a sound, Cal at hisside,withatelkyfromHouseProvos behind them both.Like a good soldier, Calwalks in step with theinstructor, who seems tinyandunassumingnexttoCal’sbulk. There are wrinkles inhis pale skin, and his hair isas white as his clothing, a

testament to his true age andhis house. House Arven, thesilent house, I remember,thinking back tomy lessons.Amajorhouse,fullofpowerandstrengthandallthethingstheSilversputtheirfaithin.Ieven remember him frombefore I became MareenaTitanos, from when I was alittle girl. He would overseethebroadcastedexecutions inthe capital, lording over the

Reds and even the Silverssentenced to die. And now Iknowwhy theychosehim todoit.

The Haven girl blinksback intoexistence,suddenlyvisible again, while thechurning wind dies inOliver’s hands. Evangeline’sknivesdropoutoftheair,andeven I feel a calmblanketofnothingfalloverme,blottingoutmyelectricalsense.

He is Rane Arven, theinstructor, the executioner,the silence. He can reduce aSilvertowhattheyhatemost:a Red. He can turn theirabilities off. He can makethemnormal.

While I gawk, Mavenpulls me into place behindhim,with Cal at the head ofourline.Evangelineleadstheline next to us, and for onceshe doesn’t seem concerned

withme.HereyesstayonCalashesettles in, lookingquiteat home in his place ofauthority.

Arvendoesn’twaste timeintroducing me. In fact, hebarely seems to notice I’vejoinedhissession.

“Laps,”hesays,hisvoiceroughandlow.

Good. Something I canactuallydo.

We set off in our lines,

circling the room at an easypace in blissful quiet. I pushmyself faster, enjoying theexercise I missed so much,until I’m speeding right pastEvangeline.Thenit’sjustCalnext to me, setting the pacefortherestofthem.Hequirksa smile at me, watching merun. This is something I cando,somethingIevenenjoy.

My feet feel strange onthecushionedfloor,bouncing

witheverystep,butthebloodpounding in my ears, thesweat, the pace are allfamiliar.IfIclosemyeyes,Ican pretend I’m back in thevillage, with Kilorn or mybrothers or just by myself.Justfree.

That is until a section ofthewall swingsout, catchingmeinthestomach.

Itknocksmetothefloor,sendingmesprawling,butit’s

my pride that really hurts.The pack of runners pullsaway, andEvangeline smirksover her shoulder, watchingme fall behind. Only Mavenslows his pace, waiting formetocatchup.

“Welcome to training.”He chuckles, watching meprymyselfofftheobstacle.

All over the room, otherparts of the wall shift,forming barriers for the

runners. Everyone else takesit in stride; they’re used tothis.CalandEvangeline leadthe pack, moving over andunder each obstacle as itappears before them. Out ofthecornerofmyeye,InoticetheProvostelkydirectingthepieces of wall, making themmove. He even seems to besmirkingatme.

I fight back the urge tosnap at the telky and push

myself back into a jog.Mavenrunsnexttome,nevermore than a step away, andit’s strangely infuriating. Mypace quickens, until I’msprinting and hurdling to thebestofmyability.ButMavenisn’tliketheSecurityathome—it’shardtoleavehiminthedust.

By the time we finishlaps,Calistheonlyonewhohasn’t broken a sweat. Even

Evangeline looks ragged,though she tries her best tohide it. My breath comes inheavypants,butI’mproudofmyself. Despite the roughstart,Imanagedtokeepup.

Instructor Arven surveysus for a moment, his eyeslingering on me, beforeturning to the telky. “Targetsplease,Theo,” he says, againbarely a whisper. Likedrawing away a curtain to

reveal the sun, I feel myabilitiesrushingback.

The telky assistantwavesahand,slidingawayasectionof the floor, revealing thestrange gun I saw from thewindow of Blonos’sclassroom. I realize it’snotagunatallbutacylinder.Onlythe telky’s power makes itmove, not some greater,strange technology. Theabilitiesarealltheyhave.

“Lady Titanos,” Arvenmurmurs, making meshudder. “I understand youhaveaninterestingability.”

He’s thinking of thelightning, the purple-whitebolts of destruction, but mymind strays to what Juliansaid yesterday. I don’t justcontrol, I can create. I amspecial.

Everyeyeturnstome,butI set my jaw, trying to will

myself into being strong.“Interesting but not unheardof, Instructor,” I say. “I’mvery eager to learn about it,sir.”

“Youmaystartnow,”theinstructor says, and the telkybehindhimtenses.

On cue, one of the balltargetsfliesintotheair,fasterthanIthoughtpossible.

Control, I tell myself,repeating Julian’s words.

Focus.This time, I can feel the

pull as I suck the electricityfrom the air—and fromsomewhere inside myself. Itmanifests in my hands,shiningtolifeinlittlesparks.But theball smacks the floorbefore I can throw it, itssparksbleedingintothefloorand disappearing. Evangelinesnickersbehindme,butwhenIturntoglareather,myeyes

find Maven instead. Hebarelynods,urgingmetotryagain. And next to him, Calcrosses his arms, his facedarkwith an emotion I can’tplace.

Anothertargetrocketsup,turning over in the air. Thesparks come sooner now,alive and bright as the targetreachesitszenith.Likebeforein Julian’s classroom, I ballmyfistand,feelingthepower

ragethroughme,Ithrow.It arcs in a beautiful

display of destructive light,clippingthesideofthefallingtarget. It shatters under mypower,smokingandsparkingas it hits the floor with acrash.

I can’t help but grin,pleased with myself. Behindme, Maven and Cal clap, asdo a few of the other kids.Evangeline and her friends

certainly do not—they lookalmost insulted by myvictory.

But Instructor Arvendoesn’t say anything, notbothering tocongratulateme.He simply looks overme, totherestoftheunit.“Next.”

The instructor runs the classragged, forcing us throughroundafterroundofexercisesmeant to fine-tune our

abilities. Of course, I fallbehind in all of them, but Ican also feel myselfimproving. By the time thesession ends, I’m drippingsweat and sore all over.Julian’s lesson is a blessing,allowing me to sit andrecovermystrength.Buteventhe session that morningcannot entirely drain me—midnight is coming. Thefaster time passes, the closer

tomidnight I get. The closerto taking the next step, totakingcontrolofmyfate.

Julian doesn’t notice myunease, probably becausehe’s elbow-deep in a pile ofnewlyboundbooks.Eachoneis about an inch thick andneatlylabeledwithayearbutnothingelse.Whattheycouldpossiblybe,Idon’tknow.

“What are these?” I ask,picking up one. Inside it’s a

mess of lists: names, dates,locations—and causes ofdeath. Most just say bloodloss, but there’s also disease,suffocation, drowning, andsome more specific andgruesome details. My bloodruns cold in my veins as Irealize exactly what I’mreading.“Adeathlist.”

Julian nods. “EverypersonwhoeverdiedfightingintheLakelanderWar.”

Shade,Ithink,feelingmymeal churn in my stomach.Something tellsme hewon’tgethisname inoneof these.Desertersdon’tget thehonorof a line of ink.Angry, I letmy mind reach out to thedesk lamp illuminating myreading. The electricity in itcallstome,asfamiliarasmyown pulse. With nothingmore thanmybrain, I turn iton and off, blinking in time

withmyraggedheartbeat.Julian notes the flashing

light,lipspursed.“Somethingwrong,Mare?”heasksdryly.

Everythingiswrong.“I’m not a fan of the

schedule change,” I sayinstead, letting the lamp be.It’s not a lie, but it’s not thetruth either. “We won’t beabletotrain.”

He only shrugs, hisparchment-colored clothes

shifting with the motion.They look dirtier somehow,like he’s turning into thepages of his books. “Fromwhat I hear, you need moreguidance than I can giveyou.”

My teeth grind together,chewingon thewordsbeforeIcanspit themout.“DidCaltellyouwhathappened?”

“He did,” Julian repliesevenly. “And he’s right.

Don’tfaulthimforit.”“I can fault him for

whatever I want,” I snort,remembering the war booksanddeath guides all over hisroom. “He’s just like all theothers.”

Julianopenshismouthtosay something but thinksbetterofitatthelastmomentand turns back to his books.“Mare,Iwouldn’texactlycallwhatwedotraining.Besides,

youlookedverygoodinyoursessiontoday.”

“Yousawthat?How?”“Iaskedtowatch.”“Wha—?”“It doesn’t matter,” he

says,lookingstraightthroughme. His voice is suddenlymelodic,hummingwithdeep,soothingvibrations.Exhaling,Irealizehe’sright.

“It doesn’t matter,” Irepeat. Even though he isn’t

speaking,theechoofJulian’svoicestillhangsintheairlikea calming breeze. “So, whatareweworkingontoday?”

Julian smirks, amusedwithhimself.“Mare.”

Hisvoiceisnormalagain,simpleandfamiliar.Itbreaksaparttheechoes,wipingthemaway from me in a liftingcloud. “What—what the hellwasthat?”

“I take it Lady Blonos

hasn’t spoken much aboutHouse Jacos inLessons?” hesays, still smirking. “I’msurprisedyouneverasked.”

Truly, I’ve neverwondered about Julian’sability. I always thought itwould be something weak,because he doesn’t seem aspompousastheothers—butitlookslikethatisn’ttrueatall.He’smuchstrongerandmoredangerous than I ever

realized.“You can control people.

You’relikeher.”Thethoughtof Julian, a sympathizer, agoodperson,beingatall likethequeenmakesmeshake.

Hetakestheaccusationinstride, shifting his attentionback to his book. “No, I’mnot. I have nowhere near herstrength.Orherbrutality.”Heheaves a sigh, explaining.“We’re called singers. Or at

least we would be, if therewereanymoreofus.I’mthelastofmyhouse,andthelastof,well,mykind.Ican’treadminds, I can’t controlthoughts, I can’t speak inyourhead.ButIcansing—aslongassomeonehearsme,aslong as I can look into theireyes—IcanmakeapersondoasIwish.”

Horror bleeds throughme.EvenJulian.

Slowly, I lean back,wanting toputsomedistancebetween him andmyself. Henotices,ofcourse,butdoesn’tlookangry.

“You’re right not to trustme,” he murmurs. “No onedoes. There’s a reason myonly friends are writtenwords. But I don’t do itunless I absolutely need to,and I’ve never done it withmalice.” Then he snorts,

laughing darkly. “If I reallywanted, I could talkmywaytothethrone.”

“Butyouhaven’t.”“No.And neither didmy

sister,nomatterwhatanyoneelsemightsay.”

Cal’s mother. “No oneseems to say anything abouther.Nottome,anyways.”

“People don’t like to talkaboutdeadqueens,”hesnaps,turning away from me in a

smooth motion. “But theytalked when she was alive.Coriane Jacos, the SingerQueen.” I’ve never seenJulian this way, not once.Usually he’s quiet, calm, alittle obsessed maybe, butnever angry. Never so hurt.“She wasn’t chosen byQueenstrial, you know. Notlike Elara, or Evangeline, oreven you. No, Tibe marriedmy sister because he loved

her—andshelovedhim.”Tibe. Calling Tiberias

Calore the Sixth, King ofNorta, Flame of the North,anythingwith less than eightsyllables seems preposterous.But he was young once too.Hewas like Cal, a boy borntobecomeaking.

“They hated her becausewe were from a low house,because we didn’t havestrength or power or any

other silly thing thosepeopleuphold,” Julian rails on, stilllooking away. His shouldersheavewitheachbreath.“Andwhen my sister becamequeen, she threatened tochangeallthat.Shewaskind,compassionate,amotherwhocouldraiseCaltobethekingthis country needed to uniteus all. A king who wouldn’tbe afraid of change.But thatnevercametobe.”

“I knowwhat it’s like tolose a sibling,” I murmur,remembering Shade. Itdoesn’tseemreal,likemaybeeveryone is just lying andhe’sathomenow,happyandsafe. But I know that isn’ttrue. And somewhere, mybrother’s decapitated bodylies as proof of that. “I onlyfound out last night. Mybrotherdiedatthefront.”

Julian finally turns back

around,hiseyesglassy. “I’msorry,Mare.Ididn’trealize.”

“Youwouldn’t.Thearmydoesn’t report executions intheirlittlebooks.”

“Executed?”“Desertion.” The word

tastes like blood, like a lie.“Even though he neverwould.”

After a long moment ofsilence,Julianputsahandonmy shoulder. “It seems we

have more in common thanyouthink,Mare.”

“Whatdoyoumean?”“They killed my sister

too.Shestoodintheway,andshewas removed.And”—hisvoice drops—“they’ll do itagain,toanyonetheyhaveto.Even Cal, even Maven, andespeciallyyou.”

Especially me. The littlelightninggirl.

“I thought youwanted to

changethings,Julian.”“I do indeed. But these

things take time, planning,and too much luck to counton.” He stares me up anddown, like somehow heknows I’ve already taken thefirststepdownadarkpath.“Idon’t want you getting inoveryourhead.”

Toolate.

SIXTEEN

Afteraweekof staringatmyclock,waitingformidnight,Ibegin to despair. Of courseFarley can’t reach us here.Even she is not so talented.But tonight, when the clockticks, I feel nothing for thefirst time since Queenstrial.No cameras, no electricity,nothing. The power is

completely out. I’ve been inblackoutsbefore,toomanytocount, but this is different.Thisisn’tanaccident.Thisisforme.

Moving quickly, I slipintomyboots,nowbrokeninby weeks of wear, and headforthedoor.I’mbarelyoutinthe hallway before I hearWalsh in my ear, speakingsoftlyandquicklyasshepullsme through the forced

darkness.“We don’t have much

time,” shemurmurs, hustlingme into a service stairwell.It’s pitch-black, but sheknows where we’re going,andItrusthertogetmethere.“They’llhavethepowerbackoninfifteenminutesifwe’relucky.”

“And if we aren’t?” Ibreatheinthedarkness.

She hustlesme down the

stairs and shoulders open adoor.“ThenIhopeyou’renottooattachedtoyourhead.”

The smell of earth anddirt and water hits me first,churningupallmymemoriesoflifeinthewoods.Buteventhough it looks like a forest,with gnarled old trees andhundreds of plants paintedblueandblackbythemoon,aglassroofrisesoverhead.Theconservatory. Twisting

shadows sprawl across theground, each oneworse thanthe next. I see Security andSentinels in every darkcorner,waitingtocaptureandkill us like they did mybrother. But instead of theirhorrific black or flameuniforms, there’s nothing butflowersbloomingbeneaththeglassceilingofstars.

“Excuse me if I don’tcurtsy,” a voice says,

emerging from a grove ofwhite-spangled magnoliatrees. Her blue eyes reflectthemoon,glowinginthedarkwith cold fire. Farley has arealtalentfortheatrics.

Likeinherbroadcast,shewears a red scarf across herface,hidingher features.Butitdoesn’thidea ruinousscarthatmarches down her neck,disappearing beneath thecollar of her shirt. It looks

new, barely beginning toheal.She’sbeenbusysince Ilast saw her. But then, sohaveI.

“Farley,” I say, tippingmyheadingreeting.

Shedoesn’tnodback,butthen, I didn’t expect her to.All business. “And the otherone?” she murmurs. Otherone?

“Holland’s bringing him.Any second now.” Walsh

sounds breathless, excitedeven, about whoever we’rewaiting for. Even Farley’seyesshine.

“What is it? Who elsejoined up?” They don’tanswer me, exchangingglancesinstead.Afewnamesrun through my head,servants and kitchen boyswhowouldsupportthecause.

But the personwho joinsus is no servant. He’s not

evenRed.“Maven.”I don’t know whether to

screamorrunwhenIseemybetrothed appear from theshadows. He’s a prince, he’sSilver, he’s the enemy, andyet, herehe is, standingwithone of the leaders of theScarlet Guard. HiscompanionHolland,anagingRed servant with years ofservicebehindhim, seems to

swellwithpride.“I told you, you’re not

alone, Mare,” Maven says,buthedoesn’t smile.Ahandtwitches at his side—he’s allnerves.Farleyscareshim.

And I can see why. Shestepstowardus,guninhand,butshe’sjustasnervousasheis. Still, her voice does notshake.“Iwanttohearitfromyour lips, little prince. Tellme what you told him,” she

says, tippingherheadtowardHolland.

Maven sneers at “littleprince,” his lips curving indistaste, but he doesn’t snapat her. “I want to join theGuard,”hesays,hisvoicefullofconviction.

She moves quickly,cocking the pistol and takingaim in the samemotion.Myheartseemstostopwhenshepresses the barrel to his

forehead, but Maven doesn’tflinch.“Why?”shehisses.

“Because this world iswrong. What my father hasdone, what my brother willdo, is wrong.” Even with agun to his head, hemanagestospeakcalmly,butabeadofsweattricklesdownhisneck.Farley doesn’t pull away,waiting for a better answer,and I find myself doing thesame.

His eyes shift,moving tomine, and he swallows hard.“When I was twelve, myfather sent me to the warfront, to toughen me up, tomake me more like mybrother. Cal is perfect, yousee,sowhycouldn’t Ibe thesame?”

I can’t help but flinch athis words, recognizing thepaininthem.IlivedinGisa’sshadow, and he lived in

Cal’s.Iknowwhatthatlifeislike.

Farley sniffs, almostlaughing at him. “I have nouseforjealouslittleboys.”

“I wish it was jealousythat drove me here,” Mavenmurmurs.“Ispentthreeyearsinthebarracks,followingCaland officers and generals,watching soldiers fight anddieforawarnoonebelievedin.WhereCalsawhonorand

loyalty, I saw foolishness. Isaw waste. Blood on bothsidesofthedividingline,andyour people gave so muchmore.”

I remember the books inCal’s room, the tactics andmaneuvers laid out like agame.Thememorymakesmecringe, butwhatMaven saysnextchillsmyblood.

“There was a boy, justseventeen, a Red from the

frozennorth.Hedidn’tknowme on sight, not likeeveryone else, but he treatedme just fine. He treated melike aperson. I think hewasmy first real friend.” Maybeit’s a trick of the moonlight,but something like tearsglimmer in his eyes. “Hisname was Thomas, and Iwatched him die. I could’vesaved him, but my guardsheldmeback.Hislifewasn’t

worthmine, theysaid.”Thenthe tears are gone, replacedbyclenched fists andan ironwill. “Cal calls this thebalance, Silver over Red.He’sagoodperson,andhe’llbeajustruler,buthedoesn’tthink change is worth thecost,”he says.“I’m trying totellyouthatI’mnotthesameastherestofthem.Ithinkmylife is worth yours, and I’llgive it gladly, if it means

change.”He is a prince and,worst

of all, the queen’s son. Ididn’t want to trust himbefore for this very reason,forthesecretshekepthidden.Ormaybethisiswhathewashidingall along . . .hisownheart.

Thoughhetrieshisbesttolook grim, to keep his spinestraight and his lips fromtrembling, I can see the boy

beneaththemask.Partofmewants to embrace him, tocomfort him, but FarleywouldstopmebeforeIcould.When she lowers her gun,slowlybutsurely,Iletgoofabreath I didn’t realize I washoldingin.

“The boy speaks true,”themanservantHollandsays.He shifts to stand next toMaven, strangely protectiveof his prince. “He’s felt this

wayformonthsnow,sincehereturnedfromthefront.”

“And you told him of usafterafewtear-fillednights?”Farley sneers, turning herfearsome gaze on Holland.Butthemanholdsfirm.

“I’ve known the princesinceboyhood.Anyonecloseto him can see his heart haschanged.” Holland glancessidelong at Maven, as ifrememberingtheboyhewas.

“Thinkwhatanallyhecouldbe. What a difference hecouldmake.”

Mavenisdifferent.Iknowthat firsthand, but somethingtells me my words won’tswayFarley.OnlyMavencandothatnow.

“Swear on your colors,”shegrowlsathim.

An ancient oath,according to Lady Blonos.Like swearing on your life,

your family, and yourchildren tocome,allatonce.And Maven doesn’t hesitatetodoit.

“I swear on my colors,”he says, dipping his head. “Ipledge myself to the ScarletGuard.” It sounds like hismarriageproposal,but this isfarmoreimportant,andmoredeadly.

“Welcome to the ScarletGuard,” she finally says,

pullingawayherscarf.I move quietly over the

tile flooruntil I feelhishandin mine. It blazes with nowfamiliar heat. “Thank you,Maven,” I whisper. “Youdon’t know what this meanstous.”Tome.

Anyotherwouldsmileatthe prospect of recruiting aSilver,andaroyalatthat,butFarley barely reacts at all.“What are you willing to do

forus?”“I can give you

information, intelligence,whatever you might need tocontinue forward with youroperation. I sit on taxcouncilswithmyfather—”

“We don’t care abouttaxes,” Farley snaps. Shecasts an angry glance at me,asifit’smyfaultshedoesn’tlike what he’s offering.“What we need are names,

locations,targets.Whattohitand when to cause the mostdamage. Can you give methat?”

Maven shifts,uncomfortable. “I wouldprefera lesshostilepath,”hemutters. “Your violentmethods aren’t winning youanyfriends.”

Farley scoffs, letting thesound echo over theconservatory. “Your people

are a thousand times moreviolent and cruel than mine.We’ve spent the last fewcenturiesunderaSilverboot,andwe’renotgoingtogetoutbybeingnice.”

“I suppose,” Mavenmurmurs. I can tell he’sthinking of Thomas, ofeveryonehewatcheddie.Hisshoulder brushes mine as hepullsback, retreating intomeforprotection.Farleydoesn’t

missitandalmost laughsoutloud.

“The little prince and thelittle lightning girl.” Shelaughs. “You two suit eachother. One, a coward, andyou”—she turns to me, hersteel-blueeyesburning—“thelast time we met, you werescrabbling in the mud for amiracle.”

“Ifoundit,”Itellher.Tocement my point, my hands

spark up, casting dancingpurplelightoverus.

The darkness seems toshift, and members of theScarlet Guard revealthemselves in menacingorder,steppingoutfromtreesand bushes. Their faces aremasked with scarves andbandannas, but they don’thide everything. The tallestonemustbeTristan,withhislong limbs. I can tell by the

way they stand, tense andready for action, that they’reafraid. But Farley’s facedoesn’t change. She knowsthe people meant to protecther won’t do much againstMaven, or even me, but shedoesn’t look at allintimidated. To my greatsurprise, she finally smiles.Her grin is fearsome, full ofteethandawildhunger.

“We can bomb and burn

every inch of this countrydown,”shemurmurs,lookingbetween us with somethinglikepride,“butthatwillneverdo the damage you two cando. A Silver prince turningagainst his crown, aRed girlwith abilities. What willpeople say, when they seeyoustandingwithus?”

“I thought you wanted—,”Mavenstarts,butFarleywavesthewordsaway.

“The bombings are just awaytogetattention.Oncewehave it, once every Silver inthis forsaken country iswatching,weneedsomethingto show them.” Her gazeturns calculating as shemeasures us up,weighing usagainst whatever she has inmind.“Ithinkyou’lldoquitenicely.”

My voice trembles,dreadingwhatshemightsay.

“Aswhat?”“The faceofourglorious

revolution,”shesaysproudly,tossing her head back. Hergolden hair catches themoonlight.For a second, sheseems to wear a sparklingcrown.“Thedropofwatertobreakthedam.”

Mavennodswithfervor.“So,wheredowestart?”“Well,Ithinkit’stimewe

took a page out of Mare’s

bookofmischief.”“What’s that supposed to

mean?” I don’t understand,but Maven follows Farley’slineofthoughteasily.

“My father has beencovering up other attacks bythe Guard,” he mutters,explainingherplan.

Mymind flickersback toColonel Macanthos and heroutburst at luncheon. “Theairfield, Delphie, Harbor

Bay.”Maven nods. “He called

them accidents, trainingexercises, lies.Butwhenyousparked up at Queenstrial,evenmymothercouldn’ttalkyou away. We needsomething like that,something no one can hide.ToshowtheworldtheScarletGuard is very dangerous andveryreal.”

“But won’t that have

consequences?”My thoughtsflash back to the riot, to theinnocent people tortured andkilled by a mindless horde.“The Silverswill turn on us,thingswillgetworse.”

Farleylooksaway,unableto holdmy gaze. “Andmorewilljoinus.Morewillrealizethe lives we live are wrongand that something can bedone to change it. We’vestoodstillforfartoolong;it’s

time to make sacrifices andmoveforward.”

“Was my brother yoursacrifice?” I snap, feelinganger flare within me. “Washisdeathworthittoyou?”

Tohercredit, shedoesn’ttry to lie. “Shade knewwhathewasgettinginto.”

“And what abouteveryone else? What aboutthe kids and the elders andanyonewhohasn’tsignedup

for your ‘gloriousrevolution’? What happenswhenSentinelsstartroundingthemupforpunishmentwhentheycan’tfindyou?”

Maven’s voice is warmandsoftinmyear.“Thinkofyour histories, Mare. WhathasJuliantaughtyou?”

He taught me aboutdeath. The before. Thewars.But beyond that, in a timewhen things could still

change, there wererevolutions. The people rose,the empires fell, and thingschanged. Liberty moved inarcs, rising and falling withthetideoftime.

“Revolution needs aspark,” I murmur, repeatingwhat Julianwouldsay inourlessons. “And even sparksburn.”

Farley smiles. “Youshould know that better than

anyone.”But I’m still not

convinced.ThepainoflosingShade, of knowing myparentshavelostachild,willonly multiply if we do this.HowmanymoreShadeswilldie?

Strangely it’sMaven, notFarley,whotriestoswayme.

“Cal believes that changeis not worth the cost,” hesays. His voice shakes,

quivering with nerves andconviction. “And he’s goingtoruleoneday—doyouwanttolethimbethefuture?”

For once, my answer iseasy.“No.”

Farley nods, pleased.“Walsh and Holland”—shejerks her head toward them—“tellmethere’sgoingtobealittlepartyhere.”

“Theball,”Mavenoffers.“It’s an impossible

target,” I snap. “Everyonewill have guards; the queenwill know if something goeswrong—”

“She will not,” Mavenbreaks in, almost scoffing atthe idea. “My mother is notall-powerful, as she wouldwantyoutobelieve.Evenshehaslimits.”

Limits? The queen? Justthe thought makes my mindrun wild. “How can you say

that?Youknowwhatshecando—”

“Iknowthatinthemiddleofaball,withsomanyvoicesand thoughts swirling aroundher,she’llbeuseless.Andsolong as we stay out of herpath, give her no reason toprod,shewon’tknowathing.ThesamegoesfortheEagrieeyes. Theywon’t be lookingaheadfortrouble,andsotheywon’t see it.” He turns back

toFarley,hisspinestraightasan arrow. “Silvers might bestrong, but we are notinvincible.Itcanbedone.”

Farley nods smoothly,smilingwithherteeth.“We’llbe in contact again, oncethingsaresetinmotion.”

“Can I ask something inreturn?” I blurt, reaching outto grab her arm. “My friend,the one I came to you aboutbefore, wants to join the

Guard.Butyoucan’tlethim.Justmakesurehedoesn’tgetinvolvedinanyofthis.”

Gently, she peels myfingersfromherarmasregretcloudshereyes.

“I hope you don’t meanme.”

Tomyhorror, one of hershadowy guards stepsforward. The red rag aroundhis face doesn’t hide the setof his broad shoulders or the

ratty shirt I’ve seen athousandtimes.Butthesteelylook in his eyes, thedeterminationofamantwicehis age, is something I don’trecognizeat all.Kilorn looksyears away already. ScarletGuard to thebone,willing tofight and die for the cause.He’sRedasthedawn.

“No,” Iwhisper, drawingback fromFarley.NowIcanonly see Kilorn running full

speedtowardhisdoom.“Youknow what happened toShade.Youcan’tdothis.”

Hepullsawaytheragandreaches out to embrace me,but I step away. His touchfeels like a betrayal. “Mare,youdon’thavetokeeptryingtosaveme.”

“I will as long as youwon’t.”Howcanheexpecttobe anything but a humanshield?How can he do this?

Faraway,somethinghumsatme, growing louder by thesecond, but I barely notice.I’mmorefocusedonkeepingthetearsfromfallinginfrontof Farley and the Guard andMaven.

“Kilorn,please.”He darkens atmywords,

like they’re an insult ratherthanayounggirl’splea.

“You made your choice,andI’mmakingmine.”

“I made the choice foryou,tokeepyousafe,”Isnap.It’s amazing how easily wefallbackintoouroldrhythm,bickering like always. Butthere’smuchmoreonthelinenow. I can’t just shove himinto themudandwalkaway.“Ibargainedforyou.”

“You’re doing what youthinkwillprotectme,Mare,”he mutters, his voice a lowrumble.“SoletmedowhatI

cantosaveyou.”My eyes squeeze shut,

letting my heartache takeover. I’ve been protectingKilorn every day since hismother left, since he almoststarved to death in mydoorway.And now hewon’tlet me, no matter howdangerous the future hasbecome.

Slowly, I open my eyesagain.

“Do what you want,Kilorn.”Myvoiceiscoldandmechanical, like the wiresand circuits trying to switchback on. “The power’scomingbacksoon.Weshouldbeonthemove.”

The others spring intoaction, disappearing into theconservatory, and Walshtakes me by the arm. Kilornbacks away, following theothers into the shadows, but

hiseyesstayonme.“Mare,”hecallsafterme.

“Atleastsaygood-bye.”But I’m already walking,

Maven by my side, Walshleadingusboth. Iwon’t lookback, not now when he’sbetrayed all I’ve ever doneforhim.

Time moves slowly whenyou’rewaiting for somethinggood, so naturally the days

fly by as the dreaded ballapproaches. A week passeswithout any contact, leavingMavenandmeinthedarkasthe hours march on. MoreTraining, more Protocol,more brainless lunches thatalmost leave me in tears.Every time I have to lie, topraise the Silvers and ripdown my own. Only theGuardkeepsmestrong.

Lady Blonos scolds me

for being distracted inProtocol. I don’t have theheart to tell her that,distractedornot,I’llneverbeable to learn the dance stepsshe’s trying to teach for theParting Ball. As suited as Imight be to sneaking, I’mhorrible with rhythmicmotion.Meanwhile, the oncedreaded Training is an outletfor all my anger and stress,allowing me to run or spark

off everything I’m trying tokeepinside.

But justwhen I’m finallybeginning to get the hang ofthings, themood of Trainingshifts drastically. Evangelineandherlackeysdon’tsnipeatme, instead focusing intentlyon their warm-ups. EvenMaven goes through hisstretchesmore carefully, likehe’spreparingforsomething.

“What’sgoingon?”Iask

him,noddingtotherestoftheclass.Myeyes lingeronCal,currently doing push-ups inperfectform.

“You’ll see in aminute,”Maven replies, his voiceoddlydull.

When Arven enters withProvos,evenhehasastrangespringinhisstep.Hedoesn’tbark out an order to run andapproachestheclassinstead.

“Tirana,” Instructor

Arvenmurmurs.A girl in a blue-striped

suit, the nymph from HouseOsanos, jumps to attention.She makes her way towardthe center of the floor,waiting for something. Shelooksequalparts excitedandterrified.

Arven turns, searchingthroughus.Fora second,hiseyes linger on me butthankfullyshifttoMaven.

“Prince Maven, if youplease.”HegesturestowhereTiranawaits.

Mavennodsandmovestostand beside her. Both ofthem tense, fingers twitchingas they await whatever’scoming.

Suddenly, the trainingfloor moves around them,pushing clear walls up toform something. Again,Provos raises his arms, using

his abilities to transform thetraininghall.As thestructuretakes shape, my hearthammers, realizing exactlywhatitis.

Anarena.Cal takes Maven’s place

at my side, his movementsquickandsilent.“Theywon’thurteachother,”heexplains.“Arven stops us beforeanyone can do real damage,and there are healers on

hand.”“Comforting,” I choke

out.In the center of the

quickly forming arena, bothMavenandTiranapreparefortheirmatch.Maven’sbraceletsparks, and fire blazes in hishands, streakinguphisarms,while droplets of moistureleech from the air to swirlaround Tirana in a ghostlydisplay. Both of them look

readyforbattle.Something about my

unease sets Cal on edge. “IsMaven the only thing you’reworriedabout?”

Not even close.“Protocol’s not exactly easyrightnow.”I’mnotlying,buton my list of problems,learning to dance is at thevery bottom. “It seems I’meven worse at dancing thanmemorizingcourtetiquette.”

To my surprise, Callaughs loudly. “Youmust behorrible.”

“Well, it’s difficult tolearn without a partner,” Isnap,bristlingathim.

“Indeed.”The last two pieces lock

together, completing thetraining arena and fencing inMaven and his opponent.Now they’re separated fromthe rest of us by thick glass,

trapped together in aminiature version of a battlearena.ThelasttimeIwatchedSilvers fight, someonealmostdied.

“Who has theadvantage?” Arven says,questioning the class. Everyhandbutmineshootsintotheair.“Elane?”

The Haven girl juts herchin forward, speakingproudly. “Tirana has the

advantage. She is older andmore experienced.” Elanesays this like it’s the mostobvious thing in the world.Maven’s cheeks flush white,though he tries to hide it.“Andwaterdefeatsfire.”

“Verygood.”Arvenshiftshis eyes back to Maven,daring him to argue. ButMaven holds his tongue,lettingthegrowingfirespeakforhim.“Impressme.”

They collide, spitting fireand rain in a duel of theelements. Tirana uses herwater like a shield, and toMaven’s fiery attacks, it’simpenetrable. Every time hegets close to her, swingingwith flaming fists, he comesbackwithnothingbut steam.The battle looks even, butsomehow Maven seems tohave the edge. He’s on theoffensive, backing her into a

wall.All around us, the class

cheers, goading on thewarriors. I used to bedisgusted by displays likethis, but now I’m having ahard time keeping quiet.Every time Maven attacks,closer to pinning downTirana,it’sallIcandonottocheerwiththeothers.

“It’s a trap,Mavey,” Calwhispers, more to himself

thananyone.“What is it? What’s she

goingtodo?”Calshakeshishead.“Just

watch.She’sgothim.”ButTiranalooksanything

but victorious. She’s flatagainstthewall,duelinghardbehind her watery shield assheblocksblowafterblow.

Idon’tmissthelightning-quick moment as Tiranaliterally turns the tide on

Maven. She grabs his armandpulls,spinningaroundsothey trade places in aheartbeat. Now it’s Mavenbehind her shield, pinnedbetween the water and thewall.Buthecan’tcontrolthewater, and it presses againsthim, holding him back evenas he tries to burn it away.The water only boils,bubbling over his blazingskin.

Tirana stands back,watchinghimstrugglewithasmileonherface.“Yield?”

A stream of bubblesescapesMaven’slips.Yield.

The water drops fromhim,vaporizingbackintotheair to the sound of applause.Provos waves a hand again,and one of the arena wallsslides back. Tirana gives atiny bow while Maventrudges out of the circle, a

soggy,poutingmess.“I challenge Elane

Haven,” Sonya Iral sayssharply, trying to get thewords out before ourinstructor can pair her withsomeone else. Arven nods,allowing the challenge,before turning his gaze onElane. To my surprise, shesmiles and saunters towardthe arena, her long red hairswayingwiththemovement.

“Iacceptyourchallenge,”Elanereplies,takingaspotinthe center of the arena. “Ihope you’ve learned somenewtricks.”

Sonya follows, eyesdancing. She even laughs.“You think I’d tell you if Idid?”

SomehowtheymanagetogiggleandsmilerightupuntilElane Haven disappearsentirely and grabs Sonya

around the throat. Shechokes, gasping for air,before twisting in theinvisible girl’s arms andslipping away. Their matchdevolves quickly into adeadly, violent game of catandinvisiblemouse.

Maven doesn’t bother towatch, angry with himselfoverhisperformance.“Yes?”hesaystoCal,andhisbrotherlaunches headfirst into a

hushed lecture. I get thefeelingthisisnormal.

“Don’t corner someonebetter than you, it makesthem more dangerous,” hesays, putting an arm aroundhis brother’s shoulder. “Youcan’tbeatherwithability,sobeatherwithyourhead.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,”Maven mutters, begrudgingtheadvicebuttakingitallthesame.

“You’re getting betterthough,” Cal murmurs,patting Maven on theshoulder. Hemeans well butcomesoffaspatronizing.I’msurprisedMavendoesn’tsnapathim—buthe’susedtothis,likeIwasusedtoGisa.

“Thanks, Cal. I think hegets it,” I say, speaking forMaven.

His older brother isn’tstupidandtakesthehintwith

a frown. With nothing but abackward glance at me, Calleaves us to stand withEvangeline. I wish hewouldn’t,justsoIdon’thavetowatchhersmirkandgloat.Not to mention I get thisstrange twist in my stomacheverytimehelooksather.

Once he’s out of earshot,I nudge Maven with myshoulder. “He’s right, youknow. You have to outsmart

peoplelikethat.”In front of us, Sonya

grabs on to what seems likeair and slams it against thewall. Silver liquid spatters,and Elane flutters back intovisibility, a trail of bloodstreamingfromhernose.

“He’s always right whenit comes to the arena,” herumbles, strangely upset.“Justwaitandsee.”

Across the arena,

Evangeline smiles at themurderous display betweenus. How she can watch herfriendsbleedingon the floor,I don’t know. Silvers aredifferent, I remind myself.Their scars don’t last. Theydon’t remember pain. Withskin healers waiting in thewings, violence has taken ona new meaning for them. Abrokenspine,asplitstomach,it doesn’t matter. Someone

will always come to fix you.Theydon’tknowthemeaningofdangerorfearorpain.It’sonly their pride that can betrulyhurt.

You are Silver. You areMareena Titanos. You enjoythis.

Cal’s eyes dart betweenthegirls,studyingthemlikeabookorapaintingratherthanamovingmass of blood andbone. Beneath the black cut

of his training suit, hismuscles tense, ready for histurn.

And when it comes, Iunderstand what Mavenmeans.

Instructor Arven pits Calagainst two others, thewindweaver Oliver andCyrineMacanthos,agirlwhoturnsher skin to stone. It’s amatch in name only.Despitebeing outnumbered, Cal toys

with the other two. Heincapacitates them one at atime, trapping Oliver in aswirl of fire while tradingblowswithCyrine.Shelookslike a living statue, made ofsolid rock rather than flesh,butCal’sstronger.Hisblowssplinter her rocky skin,sendingspidercracksthroughher body with every punch.This is just practice to him;he almost looks bored. He

ends the match when thearena explodes into achurning inferno that evenMaven steps back from. Bythe time the smoke and fireclears,bothOliverandCyrinehave yielded. Their skincracksinbitsofburnedflesh,butneithercriesout.

Cal leaves them bothbehind, not bothering towatchasaskinhealerappearstofix themup.Hesavedme,

he brought me home, hebroke the rules for me. Andhe’s a merciless soldier, theheirtoabloodythrone.

Cal’s blood might besilver,buthisheartisblackasburnedskin.

When his eyes trail tomine, I force myself to lookaway. Instead of letting hiswarmth, his strange kindnessconfuse me, I commit theinferno to memory. Cal is

more dangerous than all ofthem put together. I cannotforgetthat.

“Evangeline, Andros,”Arven clips, nodding at thepairofthem.Androsdeflates,almost annoyed at theprospect of fighting—andlosing—to Evangeline, butdutifully trudges into thearena. To my surprise,Evangelinedoesn’tbudge.

“No,” she says boldly,

plantingherfeet.When Arven whirls to

her, hisvoice rises abovehisusualwhisperanditcuts likea razor. “I beg your pardon,LadySamos?”

She turns her black eyesonme, andhergaze is sharpasanyknife.

“I challenge MareenaTitanos.”

SEVENTEEN

“Absolutely not,” Mavenrumbles.“She’sbeentrainingforonlytwoweeks;you’llcutherapart.”

In response, Evangelinejust shrugs, letting a lazysmirkrisetoherfeatures.Herfingersdanceagainsther leg,and I can almost feel themlikeclawsacrossmyskin.

“So what if she does?”Sonyabreaksin,andIthinkIsee a gleam of hergrandmotherinhereye.“Thehealers are here. There’ll beno harm done. Besides, ifshe’s going to train with us,she might as well do itproperly,right?”

No harm done, I scoff inmy head. No harm but myblood exposed for all to see.My heartbeat thumps in my

head, quickening with everypassing second. Overhead,the lights shine brightly,illuminating the ring; myblood will be hard to hide,and they’llseemeforwhat Iam. The Red, the liar, thethief.

“I’d like somemore timeobserving before I get in thering, if you don’t mind,” Ireply,tryingmybesttosoundSilver. Instead, my voice

quavers. Evangeline catchesit.

“Tooscaredtofight?”shegoads, lazily flicking a hand.One of her knives, a littlething like a tooth of silver,circles her wrist slowly inopen threat. “Poor littlelightninggirl.”

Yes, I want to scream.Yes, Iamscared.ButSilversdon’t admit things like that.Silvershave theirpride, their

strength—and nothing else.“When I fight, I intend towin,” I say instead, throwingher words back in her face.“I’m not a fool, Evangeline,andIcannotwinyet.”

“Trainingoutsidetheringcan only get you so far,Mareena,” Sonya purrs,latching on to my lie withglee. “Don’t you agree,Instructor?Howcansheeverexpect to win if she doesn’t

try?”Arven knows there’s

somethingdifferentaboutme,a reason for my ability andmystrength.Butwhatthatis,hecannotfathom,andthere’saglintofcuriosityinhiseye.He wants to see me in thering as well. And my onlyallies, Cal and Maven,exchange worried glances,wondering how to proceedacross such shaky ground.

Didn’t they expect this?Didn’t they think it wouldcometothis?

OrmaybethisiswhatI’vebeenheadedforallalong.Anaccidental death in Training,another lie for the queen totell,afittingdeathforthegirlwho doesn’t belong. It’s atrapIwillinglysteppedinto.

The game will be over.And everyone I love willhavelost.

“Lady Titanos is thedaughter of a dead war heroand you can do nothing buttease her,” Cal growls,throwingdaggeredglances atthegirls.Theybarelyseemtonotice,almostlaughingathispoor defense. Hemight be abornfighter,buthe’satalosswhenitcomestowords.

Sonya is even moreincensed, her sly naturetakinghold.WhereasCalisa

warrior in the ring, she is asoldier of speech, and twistshis words with frighteningease. “A general’s daughtershoulddowell in the ring. Ifanything, Evangeline shouldbeafraid.”

“She wasn’t raised by ageneral, don’t be foolish—,”Maven sneers. He’s muchbetteratthissortofthing,butI cannot let him win mybattles.Notwiththesegirls.

“I will not fight,” I sayagain. “Challenge someoneelse.”

When Evangeline smiles,herteethwhiteandsharp,myold instincts ring inmyheadlikeabell.Ibarelyhavetimeto drop as her knife burnsthrough the air, cuttingthrough the spot where myneckwassecondsbefore.

“I challenge you,” shesnaps,andanotherbladeflies

at my face. More rise fromher belt, ready to cut me toribbons.

“Evangeline, stop—,”Maven shouts, and Cal pullsme tomy feet,hiseyesalivewith worry.My blood sings,coursingwith adrenaline,mypulse so loud I almost misshiswhisperedwords.

“You’re faster. Keep heron the run.Don’t beafraid.”Another knife blazes by, this

time digging into the groundatmyfeet.“Don’tletherseeyoubleed.”

Over his shoulder,Evangeline prowls like apredatory cat, a glitteringstormofknivesinherfist.Inthat instant, I know nothingandnoonewillstopher.Noteven the princes. And Icannotgiveherthechancetowin.Icannotlose.

A bolt of lightning

escapesme,streakingthroughtheairatmycommand.Ithitsher in the chest and shestaggers back, colliding withthe outer wall of the arena.But insteadof lookingangry,Evangeline regards me withglee.

“Thiswill be quick, littlelightning girl,” she snarls,wiping away a trickle ofsilverblood.

All around, the other

students draw back, glancingbetween the two of us. Thiscouldbethelasttimetheyseemealive.No, I thinkagain. Icannot lose. My focusintensifies, deepening mysense of power until it’s sostrong I hardly notice thewallsshiftingaroundus.Witha click, Provos re-forms thearena, lockingus in together,a Red girl and a smilingSilvermonster.

She grins across at me,andrazor-thinpiecesofmetalpeel off the floor, shaped toher will. They curl andshudder and scrape into aliving nightmare. Her usualblades are gone, tossed asidefor a new tactic. The metalthings,creaturesofhermind,skitteracrossthefloortostopatherfeet.Eachonehaseightrazoredlegs,sharpandcruel.They quiver as they wait to

be released, to cut me apart.Spiders. A horrible crawlingsensation prickles my skin,likethey’realreadyuponme.

Sparkscometolifeinmyhands, dancing between myfingers. The lights flicker astheenergyintheroombleedsinto me like water soakinginto a sponge. Power racesthrough me, driven by myownstrength—andbyneed.Iwillnotdiehere.

On the other side of thewall, Maven smiles, but hisface is pale, afraid. Next tohim, Cal doesn’t move. Asoldierdoesn’tblinkuntilthebattleiswon.

“Who has theadvantage?” InstructorArvenasks. “Mareena orEvangeline?”

Nooneraisesahand.Noteven Evangeline’s friends.Instead, they stare between

us, watching our abilitiesgrow.

Evangeline’s smile fadesinto a sneer. She’s used tobeing favored, to being theoneeveryone’safraidof.Andnowshe’sangrierthanever.

Again, the lights flickeronandoff,asmybodyhumslike an overloaded wire. Inthe flashing darkness, herspiders scrabble over thefloor, their metal legs

clanginginterribleharmony.And then all I know is

fearandpowerand thesurgeofenergyinmyveins.

Darkness and lightexplode back and forth,plunging us both into astrange battle of flickeringcolor. My lightning burststhrough the darkness,streakingpurpleandwhiteasit shatters through spiders atevery turn. Cal’s advice

echoesinmyhead,andIkeepmoving,neverstickingtoonespotonthefloorlongenoughfor Evangeline to hurt me.She weaves through herspiders,dodgingmysparksasbest she can. Jagged metaltears at my arms, but theleather suit holds firm. She’sfast,butI’mfaster,evenwithspiders clawing around mylegs. For a second, herinfuriatingsilverbraidpasses

throughmyfingertips,beforeshe’s out of reach again.ButI’ve got her on the run. I’mwinning.

IhearMaven through theshriek of metal and cheeringclassmates, roaring forme tofinish her. The lights flash,making her hard to spot, butfor a brief moment, I feelwhat it’s like to be one ofthem. To feel strength andpower absolutely, to know

you can do what millionscan’t. Evangeline feels likethis every day, and now it’smy turn. I’ll teach you whatit’sliketoknowfear.

A fist slams against thesmall of my back, shootingpain through the rest of mybody.My knees buckle withthe agony, sendingme to theground. Evangeline pausesabove me, her smilesurrounded by a messy

curtainofsilverhair.“Like I said,” she snarls.

“Quick.”My legs move on their

own, swinging out in amaneuver I’ve used in theback alleys of the Stilts ahundred times. Even onKilornonceortwice.Myfootconnects with her leg,sweeping it out from underher, and she crashes to thefloor next tome. I’m on her

in a second, despite theexploding pain in my back.My hands crackle with hotenergy, even as they collideagainst her face. Pain searsthroughmyknucklebonesbutI keep going, wanting to seesweetsilverblood.

“You’ll wish it wasquick,” I roar, bearing downonher.

Somehow, through herbruising lips, Evangeline

manages to laugh.Thesoundmelts away, replaced bymetallic screeching. And allaround us, the fallen,electrified spiders twitch tolife. Their metal bodies re-form,weavingtogetherattheseams, into a ruinous,smokingbeast.

It skitters with surprisingspeed, knocking me off her.I’m the one pinned now,looking up at the heaving,

twisting shardsofmetal.Thesparks die in my hands,driven away by fear andexhaustion. Even the healerswon’tbeabletosavemeafterthis.

A razor leg drags acrossmy face, drawing red, hotblood. I hear myself scream,notinpain,butdefeat.Thisistheend.

Andthenablazingarmoffireknocksthemetalmonster

off me, burning it intonothing more than a charredblack pile of ash. Stronghandspullmetomyfeetandthengo tomyhair,pulling itacrossmyfacetohidetheredmark that could betrayme. Iturn in toMaven, lettinghimwalk me from the trainingroom. Every inch of meshakes, but he keeps mesteady andmoving.A healercomesmyway,butCalheads

him off, blocking my facefromhissight.

Before the door slamsbehind us, I hear Evangelineyelling and Cal’s usuallycalmvoiceyellingrightback,roaringoverherlikeastorm.

My voice breaks when Ifinally speak again. “Thecameras, the cameras cansee.”

“Sentinels sworn to my

mothermanthecameras,trustme, they aren’t what weshould be worrying about,”Maven says, almost trippingover his words. He keeps atight grip on my arm, likehe’s afraid Imight be pulledaway from him. His handghosts over my face, wipingaway the blood with hissleeve.Ifanyonesees...

“TakemetoJulian.”“Julian’s a fool,” he

mutters.Figures appear at the far

end of the hall, a pair ofroaming nobles, and hepushes us down a servicepassagetoavoidthem.

“JulianknowswhoIam,”I whisper back, grabbing onto him. As his grip tightens,so does mine. “Julian willknowwhattodo.”

Maven looks down onme, conflicted, but finally

nods. By the time we reachJulian’squarters,thebleedinghas stopped, but my face isstillamess.

Heopens thedooron thefirstknock, lookinghisusualhaphazard self. To mysurprise,hefrownsatMaven.

“PrinceMaven,” he says,bending into a stiff, almostinsultingbow.Mavendoesn’trespond,onlypushesmepastJulian into the sitting room

beyond.Julian has a small set of

rooms, made smaller bydarkness and stale air. Thecurtains are drawn, blottingouttheafternoonsun,andthefloor is slippery with loosestacks of paper. A kettlesimmers in the corner, on anelectric piece ofmetalmeanttoreplaceastove.NowonderI never see him outside ofLessons; he appears to have

everything he needs righthere.

“What’s going on?” heasks, waving us to a pair ofdusty chairs. Obviously hedoesn’tentertainmuch.Itakea seat, but Maven refuses,stillstanding.

Idrawasidemycurtainofhair,revealingtheshiningredflag of my identity.“Evangeline got carriedaway.”

Julian shifts,uncomfortable on his owntwo feet. But it’s not memaking him squirm; it’sMaven.Thetwoglareateachother,atoddsoversomethingI don’t understand. Finally,heturnshisgazebackonme.“I’mnotaskinhealer,Mare.ThebestIcandoiscleanyouup.”

“Itoldyou,”Mavensays.“Hecan’tdoanything.”

Julian’s lip curls into asnarl.“FindSaraSkonos,”hesnaps, his jaw tightening ashewaits forMaven tomove.I’ve never seen Maven thisangry,notevenwithCal.Butthen, it’s not anger spillingout from Maven or Julian—it’s hate. They absolutelydespiseeachother.

“Do it, my prince.” Thetitle sounds like a cursecomingfromJulian’slips.

Maven finally concedesandslipsoutthedoor.

“What’sthatallabout?”Iwhisper, gesturing betweenJulianandthedoor.

“Not now,” he says, andtosses me a white cloth tocleanmyselfwith. It stains adark red as my blood ruinsthefabric.

“Who’sSaraSkonos?”Again, Julian hesitates.

“A skin healer. She’ll take

careofyou.”Hesighs.“Andshe’s a friend. A discreetfriend.”

I didn’t know Julian hadfriends beyond me and hisbooks, but I don’t questionhim.

When Maven slips backintotheroomafewmomentslater, I’ve managed to cleanmy face properly, though itstill feels sticky and swollen.I’llhaveafewbruisestohide

tomorrow, and I don’t evenwant to knowwhatmy backlooks like now. Gingerly, Itouch the growing lumpwhere Evangeline punchedme.

“Sara’s not . . .” Mavenpauses, mulling over thewords. “She’s not who Iwouldhavechosenforthis.”

BeforeIcanaskwhy,thedoor opens, revealing thewomanIassumeisSara.She

enters silently, barely raisingher eyes. Unlike the others,theBlonosbloodhealers,herage is displayed proudly onherface,ineverywrinkleandher sunken, hollow cheeks.ShelookstobeaboutJulian’sage, but her shoulders droopinawaythattellsmeherlifehasfeltfarlongerthanhis.

“Nice to meet you, LadySkonos.” My voice is calm,like I’m asking about the

weather. It seems myProtocol lessons might besinkinginafterall.

ButSaradoesn’trespond.Instead, she drops to herkneesinfrontofmychairandtakes my face in her roughhands.Hertouchiscool,likewater on a sunburn, and herfingers trail over thegashonmy cheek with surprisinggentleness. She worksdiligently, healing over the

other bruises on my face.Before I can mention myback, she slips a hand downto the injury, and somethinglike soothing ice bleedsthroughthepain.It’salloverina fewmoments,and I feellike I did when I first camehere. Better, in fact. My oldaches and bruises arecompletelygone.

“Thank you,” I say, butagain,Igetnoresponse.

“Thankyou,Sara,”Julianbreathes,andhereyesdarttohis in a flash of gray color.Herheadbowsslightly,inthetiniest nod. He reachesforward, a handbrushingherarm as he helps her to herfeet. The two of them movelike partners in a dance,listeningtomusicnooneelsecanhear.

Maven’s voice shatterstheir silence. “That will be

all,Skonos.”Sara’s quiet calm melts

into barely concealed angeras she spins out of Julian’sgrip, scrambling for the doorlike a wounded animal. Thedoor shuts behind herwith aslam, shaking the framedmaps in their glass prisons.Even Julian’s hands shake,trembling long after she’sgone,likehecanstillfeelher.

Hetriestohideit,butnot

well: Julianwas in lovewithher once, and maybe evenstill is. He looks at the doorlike a man haunted, waitingforhertocomeback.

“Julian?”“The longer you’re gone,

the more people will start totalk,” he mutters, gesturingforustoleave.

“I agree.” Maven movesto the door, ready to open itandshovemebackout.

“Are you sure no onesaw?”Myhandmovestomycheek,nowsmoothandclean.

Maven pauses, thinking.“No one who would sayanything.”

“Secretsdon’tstaysecretshere,” Julian mutters. Hisvoicequiverswithrareanger.“You know that, YourHighness.”

“You should know thedifference between secrets,”

Mavensnaps,“andlies.”His hand closes around

mywrist,pullingmebackoutinto the hall before I canbother to ask what’s goingon. We don’t make it farbeforea familiar figure stopsus.

“Trouble,dear?”Queen Elara, a vision in

silk, addresses Maven.Strangely, she’s alone, withnoSentinelstoguardher.Her

eyeslingeronhishandstillinmine. For once, I don’t feelher try to push her way intomy thoughts. She’s inMaven’s head right now, notmine.

“Nothing I can’t handle,”Maven says, tightening hisgrip on me like I’m somekindofanchor.

She raises an eyebrow,notbelievingawordhesays,but doesn’t question him. I

doubt she really questionsanyone; she knows all theanswers.

“Best hurry up, LadyMareena,oryou’llbelateforluncheon,” she purrs, finallyturning her ghostly eyes onme.And then it’smy turn toholdontoMaven.“Andtakea little more care in yourTraining sessions. Red bloodisjustsohardtocleanup.”

“You would know,” I

snap, remembering Shade.“Becausenomatterhowhardyou try to hide it, I see it alloveryourhands.”

Hereyeswiden,surprisedatmy outburst. I don’t thinkanyone’s ever spoken to herthis way, and it makes mefeel like a conqueror. But itdoesn’tlastlong.

Suddenly my bodytwitches backward, throwingitself into the passage wall

witharesoundingsmack.Shemakesmedancelikeapuppetonviolentstrings.Everybonerattles and my neck cracks,slammingmyheadbackuntilIseeicybluestars.

No, not stars. Eyes. Hereyes.

“Mother!”Maven shouts,but his voice sounds faraway.“Mother,stop!”

Ahandclosesaroundmythroat,holdingmeinplaceas

controlofmyownbodyebbsaway.Herbreath is sweetonmyface,toosweettostand.

“Youwillnotspeaktomelike that again,” Elara says,too angry to botherwhispering in my head. Hergrip tightens, and I couldn’teven agree with her if Iwantedto.

Why doesn’t she just killme? I wonder as I gasp forbreath.If I’m such a burden,

such a problem, why doesn’tshejustkillme?

“That’s enough!” Mavenroars, the heat of his angerpulsing through the passage.Even through the hazydarknesseatingatmyvision,Iseehimpullheroffmewithsurprising strength andboldness.

Her ability’s hold on mebreaks, letting me slumpagainstthewall.Elaraalmost

stumblesherself,reelingwithshock.NowherglareturnsonMaven, on her own sonstandingagainsther.

“Return toyourschedule,Mare.” He seethes, notbreakingeyecontactwithhismother. I don’t doubt she’sscreaming in his head,scolding him for protectingme.“Go!”

Heat crackles all around,radiatingoffhisskin,andfor

a moment I’m reminded ofCal’s guarded temper. ItseemsMaven hides a fire aswell, an even stronger one,andIdon’twanttobearoundwhenitexplodes.

As I scramble away,tryingtoputasmuchdistanceas I can betweenmyself andthe queen, I can’t help butlookbackatthem.Theystareat each other, two piecessquaringoffinagameIdon’t

understand.

Back inmy room, themaidswait silently, another gildeddress laid across their arms.While one slips me into thespectacle of silk and purplegemstones, the others fixmyhair and makeup. As usual,they don’t say a word, eventhough I look frantic andharriedaftersuchamorning.

Lunch is a mixed affair.

Usually the women eattogether to discuss theupcoming weddings and allthesillythingsrichladiestalkabout, but today is different.We’re back on the terraceoverlooking theriver, the reduniforms of servants floatingthrough the crowd, but thereare far more militaryuniforms than ever before. Itseems likewe’re diningwithafulllegion.

Cal andMaven are thereas well, both glittering intheir medals, and they smilethroughpleasantconversationwhilethekinghimselfshakeshands with the soldiers. Allthe soldiers are young, ingrayuniformscutwith silverinsignia. Nothing like therattyredfatiguesmybrothersandanyotherRedsgetwhenthey’re conscripted. TheseSilversaregoingtowar,yes,

but not to the real fighting.They’re the sons anddaughters of importantpeople, and to them, thewaris just another place to visit.Anotherstepintheirtraining.Tous,tomeonce,itisadeadend.Itisdoom.

But I still have to domyduty,tosmileandshaketheirhands and thank them fortheir brave service. Eachwordtastesbitter,untilIhave

toduckawayfromthecrowdto an alcove half hidden byplants. The noise of thecrowd still rises with themiddaysun,butIcanbreatheagain.Forasecond,atleast.

“Everythingokay?”Cal stands over me,

lookingworriedbutstrangelyrelaxed. He likes beingaroundsoldiers;Isupposeit’shisnaturalhabitat.

Even though I want to

disappear, my spinestraightens.“I’mnota fanofbeautypageants.”

Hefrowns.“Mare,they’regoing to the front. I’d thinkyouofallpeoplewouldwantto give them a proper send-off.”

Thelaughescapesmelikegunfire.“Whatpartofmylifemakes you think I’d careaboutthesebratsgoingofftowar like it’s some kind of

vacation?”“Just because they’ve

chosen to go doesn’t makethemanylessbrave.”

“Well, I hope they enjoytheir barracks and suppliesand reprieves and all thethings my brothers werenever given.” I doubt thesewilling soldiers will everwantforsomuchasabutton.

Eventhoughhelookslikehe wants to yell at me, Cal

swallowstheurge.NowthatIknow what his temper iscapable of, I’m surprised hecan keep himself in check atall.

“This is the firstcompletely Silver legiongoing into the trenches,” hesays evenly. “They’re goingto fight with the Reds,dressedasReds,servingwithReds.TheLakelanderswon’tknowwhotheyarewhenthey

get to the Choke. And whenthe bombs fall, when theenemytries tobreaktheline,they’re going to get morethan they bargained for. TheShadow Legion will takethemall.”

Suddenly I feel hot andcold at the same time.“Original.”

But Cal doesn’t gloat.Instead, he looks sad. “Yougavemetheidea.”

“What?”“When you fell into

Queenstrial, no one knewwhat to do. I’m sure theLakelanders will feel thesame.”

ThoughI trytospeak,nosound comes out. I’ve neverbeenapointofinspirationforanything, let alone combatmaneuvers. Cal stares at melikehewantstosaymore,buthe doesn’t speak. Neither of

usknowswhattosay.A boy from our training,

thewindweaverOliver, clapsa hand on Cal’s shoulderwhile the other clutches asloshing drink. He wears auniform too. He’s going tofight.

“What’s with the hiding,Cal?”He chuckles, gesturingtothecrowdaroundus.“NexttotheLakelanders,thisbunchwillbeeasy!”

Cal meets my eyes, asilver blush tingeing hischeeks. “I’ll take theLakelanders any day,” hereplies,hiseyesneverleavingmine.

“You’re going withthem?”

Oliver answers for Cal,smilingmuch toowide for aboy going off to war.“Going?” he says. “Cal’sleading us! His own legion,

allthewaytothefront.”Slowly, Cal shifts out of

Oliver’s grip. The drunkwindweaver doesn’t seem tonotice and keeps babbling.“He’ll be the youngestgeneralinhistoryandthefirstprincetofightonthelines.”

And the first to die, amorose voice in my headwhispers. Against my betterinstincts, I reach out to Cal.He doesn’t pull away from

me, allowing me to hold hisarm. Now he doesn’t looklike a prince or a general orevenaSilver,but thatboyatthe bar, the onewhowantedtosaveme.

My voice is small butstrong.“When?”

“When you leave for thecapital, after the ball. You’llgo south,” hemurmurs, “andI’llgonorth.”

A cold shock of fear

ripplesthroughme,likewhenKilorn first told me he wasgoingtofight.ButKilornisafisher boy, a thief, someonewho knows how to survive,how to slip through thecracks; not like Cal. He’s asoldier.He’lldieifhehasto.He’ll bleed for his war. Andwhythisfrightensme,Idon’tknow.WhyIcare,Ican’tsay.

“With Cal on the lines,thiswarwill finally be over.

With Cal, we can win,”Oliver says, grinning like afool. Again, he takes Cal bytheshoulder,but this timehesteershimaway,backtowardthe party—leaving mebehind.

Someone presses a colddrink into my hand, and Idownitinasinglegulp.

“Easy there,” Mavenmutters. “Still thinking aboutthis morning? No one saw

yourface,IcheckedwiththeSentinels.”

But that’s the farthestthing from my mind as Iwatch Cal shake hands withhis father. He pastes amagnificentsmileonhisface,donning a mask only I canseethrough.

Maven follows my gazeandmythoughts.“Hewantedtodothis.Itwashischoice.”

“That doesn’t mean we

havetolikeit.”“My son the general!”

King Tiberias booms, hisproud voice cutting throughthe din of the party. For asecond, when he pulls Calclose, putting an arm aroundhisson,Iforgethe’saking.IalmostunderstandCal’sneedtopleasehim.

Whatwould I give to seemy mother look at me likethat,backwhenIwasnothing

but a thief? What would Igivenow?

ThisworldisSilver,butitis also gray. There is noblack-and-white.

Whensomeoneknocksatmydoor that night, long afterdinner, I’m expecting Walshand another cup of secret-message tea, but Cal standsthere instead. Without hisuniform or armor, he looks

like the boy he is. Barelynineteen,ontheedgeofdoomorgreatnessorboth.

I shrink in my pajamas,wishingverymuchforarobe.“Cal?Whatdoyouneed?”

He shrugs, smirking alittle bit. “Evangeline almostkilledyouintheringtoday.”

“So?”“So I don’t want her to

killyouonthedancefloor.”“Did I miss something?

Arewegoingtobefightingattheball?”

Helaughs,leaningagainstthe doorframe. But his feetneverentermy room, likehecan’t.Orheshouldn’t.You’regoingtobehisbrother’swife.Andhe’sgoingtowar.

“If you know how todance properly, you won’thaveto.”

I remember mentioninghowIcan’tdanceformylife,

let alone under Blonos’sterribledirection,buthowcanCal help me here? And whywouldhewantto?

“I’m a surprisingly goodteacher,” he adds, smilingcrookedly.Whenhestretchesout a hand to me, my bodyshivers.

I know I shouldn’t. Iknow I should shut the doorandnotgodownthisroad.

But he’s leaving to fight,

maybetodie.Shaking,Iputmyhandin

hisandlethimpullmeoutofmyroom.

EIGHTEEN

Moonlight falls on the floor,bright enough for us to seeby. In the silvery light, theredblushinmyskinisbarelyvisible—I look thesameasaSilver. Chairs scrape alongthe wood floor as Calrearranges the sitting room,clearing space for us topractice. The chamber is

secluded, but the hum ofcameras is never far away.Elara’smenarewatching,butno one comes to stop us. Orrather,tostopCal.

Hepullsastrangedevice,a little box, out of his jacketandsetsitinthemiddleofthefloor. He stares at itexpectantly, waiting forsomething.

“Can that thing teachmehowtodance?”

He shakes his head, stillsmiling.“No,butit’llhelp.”

Suddenly, a pulsing beatexplodes from thebox, and Irealizeit’saspeaker,liketheonesinthearenabackhome.Only this is for music, notbattle.Life,notdeath.

The melody is light andquick, like a heartbeat.Across from me, Cal smileswider, and his foot taps intime. I can’t resist, my own

toeswigglingwiththemusic.It’ssobouncyandupbeat,notat all like the cold, metallicmusic of Blonos’s classroomor the sorrowful songs ofhome. My feet slide along,trying to remember the stepsLadyBlonostaughtme.

“Don’t worry about that,just keep moving.” Callaughs.Adrumbeattrillsoverthe music, and he spins,humming along. For the first

time,helookslikehedoesn’thave the weight of a throneonhisshoulders.

I feel it too as my fearsandworries lift, if only for afew minutes. This is adifferent kind of freedom,like flying along on Cal’scycle.

Cal’s much better at thisthanme,buthestilllookslikea fool; I can only imaginehow idiotic I must appear.

Still, I’m sad when the songends.Asthenotesfadeawayinto the air, it feels like I’mfalling back to reality. Coldunderstanding creeps throughme;Ishouldn’tbehere.

“This probably isn’t thebestidea,Cal.”

He cocks his head,pleasantly confused. “Why’sthat?”

He’sreallygoingtomakeme say it. “I’m not even

supposed to be alone withMaven.” I stumble over thewords, feeling myself flush.“Idon’tknowifdancingwithyouinadarkroomisexactlyokay.”

Instead of arguing, Caljust laughs and shrugs.Another song, slower with ahaunting tune, fills the room.“Theway I see it, I’mdoingmybrotherafavor.”Thenhegrins crookedly. “Unless you

want to step on his feet allnight?”

“I have excellent footing,thankyouverymuch,” Isay,crossingmyarms.

Slowly, softly, he takesmy hand. “Maybe in thering,” he says. “The dancefloor, not so much.” I lookdown to watch his feet,moving in time with themusic. He pulls me along,forcing me to follow, and,

despite my best efforts, Istumbleagainsthim.

Hesmiles,happytoproveme wrong. He’s a soldier atheart,andsoldiersliketowin.“This is the same timing asmostof thesongsyou’llhearat the ball. It’s a simpledance,easytolearn.”

“I’ll find some way tomess it up,” I grumble,allowing him to push mearound the floor. Our feet

trace a rough box, and I trynot to think about hiscloseness, or the calluses ofhis hands. To my surprise,they feel like mine: roughwithyearsofwork.

“You might,” hemurmurs, all his laughtergone.

I’m used to Cal beingtaller than me, but he seemssmaller tonight. Maybe it’sthe darkness, or maybe it’s

the dance. He seems like hedidwhenI firstmethim;notaprincebutaperson.

His eyes linger on myface, tracing over where mywound was. “Maven fixedyou up nicely.” There’s anoddbitternesstohisvoice.

“Itwas Julian. Julian andSara Skonos.” Though Caldoesn’t react as strongly asMaven did, his jaw tightensallthesame.“Whydon’tyou

twolikeher?”“Maven has his reasons,

good reasons,” he mumbles.“But it’snotmystoryto tell.AndIdon’tdislikeSara.Ijustdon’t—I don’t like thinkingabouther.”

“Why? What’s she donetoyou?”

“Not to me,” he sighs.“ShegrewupwithJulian,andmymother.”His voicedropsat the mention of his mom.

“Shewasherbestfriend.Andwhen she died, Sara didn’tknow how to grieve. Julianwas a wreck, but Sara . . .”He trails off,wonderinghowto continue. Our steps slowuntil we stop, frozen as themusicechoesaroundus.

“I don’t remember mymother,” he says sharply,trying to explain himself. “Iwasn’t even a year oldwhenshe died. I only know what

myfathertellsme,andJulian.And neither of them like totalkaboutheratall.”

“I’m sure Sara could tellyou about her, if they werebestfriends.”

“SaraSkonoscan’tspeak,Mare.”

“Atall?”Cal continues slowly, in

the level, calm voice hisfather uses. “She said thingsshe shouldn’t have, terrible

lies,andshewaspunishedforit.”

Horror bleeds throughme.Can’t speak. “What didshesay?”

In a single heartbeat, Calgoes cold under my fingers.He draws back, stepping outof my arms as the musicfinally dies. With quickmotions, he pockets thespeaker, and there is nothingbut our beating hearts to fill

thesilence.“Idon’twanttotalkabout

her anymore.” He breathesheavily.Hiseyesseemoddlybright,flickeringbetweenmeand the windows full ofmoonlight.

Something twists in myheart; the pain in his voicehurtsme.“Okay.”

With quick, deliberatesteps, he moves toward thedoor like he’s trying very

hardnot to run.Butwhenheturns back around and facesmeacrosstheroom,helooksthe same as usual—calm,collected,detached.

“Practice your steps,” hesays, sounding very muchlikeLadyBlonos.“Sametimetomorrow.” And then he’sgone, leaving me alone in aroomfullofechoes.

“What the hell am Idoing?” I mutter to no one

butmyself.

I’mhalfwaytomybedbeforeI realize something is verywrong with my room: thecameras areoff.Not a singleone hums atme, seeingwithelectric eyes, recordingeverything I do. But unliketheoutagebefore, everythingelse around me still buzzesalong. Electricity still pulsesthrough the walls, to every

roombutmine.Farley.But instead of the

revolutionary, Maven stepsout of the darkness. Hethrows aside the curtains,letting in enough moonlighttoseeby.

“Late-night walk?” hesayswithabittersmile.

My mouth falls open,struggling for words. “Youknowyou’renot supposed to

be in here.” I force a smile,hopingtocalmmyself.“LadyBlonos will be scandalized.She’llpunishusboth.”

“Mother’smenowemeafavor or two,” he says,pointingtowherethecamerasare hidden. “Blonos won’thaveevidencetoconvict.”

Somehow that doesn’tcomfort me. Instead, I feelshiversrunovermyskin.Notin fear though, but

anticipation. The shiversdeepen, electrifying mynerves like my lightning asMaven takes measured stepstowardme.

Hewatchesmeblushwithwhat looks like satisfaction.“Sometimes I forget,” hemurmurs,lettingahandtouchmy cheek. It lingers, like hecan feel the color that pulsesin my veins. “I wish theywouldn’thavetopaintyouup

everyday.”Myskinbuzzesunderhis

fingers,but I try to ignore it.“Thatmakestwoofus.”

His lips twist, trying toformasmile,butitjustwon’tcome.

“What’swrong?”“Farley made contact

again.” He draws back,shoving his hands into hispockets to hide tremblingfingers.“Youweren’there.”

Just my luck. “What didshesay?”

Maven shrugs. He walksto thewindow, staring out atthe night sky. “She spentmost of her time askingquestions.”

Targets. She must’vepressedhimagain,askingforinformation Maven didn’twanttogive.Icantellbythedroop of his shoulders, thetremor in his voice, that he

saidmore thanhewanted to.Alotmore.

“Who?”Mymindfliestothe many Silvers I’ve methere,theoneswhohavebeenkindtome,intheirownway.Would any of them be asacrifice to her revolution?Whowouldbemarked?

“Maven, who did yougiveup?”

He spins around, aferocity I’ve never seen

flashing in his eyes. For asecond, I’m afraid he mightburst into flames. “I didn’twant todo it,butshe’s right.Wecan’t sit still;wehave toact. And if that means I’mgoingtogiveherpeople,I’mgoingtodoit.Iwon’tlikeit,butIwill.AndIhave.”

Like Cal, he draws ashakybreath inanattempt tocalm himself. “I sit oncouncils with my father, for

taxes and security anddefense. I knowwhowill bemissed by my—by theSilvers. I gave her fournames.”

“Who?”“Reynald Iral. Ptolemus

Samos. Ellyn Macanthos.BelicosLerolan.”

Asighescapesme,beforeI feel myself nod. Thesedeaths will not be hidden.Evangeline’s brother, the

colonel—they will be missedindeed. “Colonel Macanthosknewyourmotherwas lying.She knows about the otherattacks—”

“She commands a halflegion and heads the warcouncil. Without her, thefront will be a mess formonths.”

“The front?” Cal. Hislegion.

Maven nods. “My father

will not send his heir towarafter this.An attack so closetohome,Idoubthe’llevenlethim out of sight of thecapital.”

So her death will saveCal.AndhelptheGuard.

Shade died for this. Hiscauseisminenow.

“Two birds with onestone,” I breathe, feeling hottears threaten to fall. Asdifficult as thismightbe, I’ll

tradeherlifeforCal’s.I’lldoitathousandtimes.

“Yourfriend’spartofthistoo.”

My knees shake, but Imanage to keep myselfupright. I alternate betweenanger and fear as Mavenexplains the plan with aheavy,hardenedheart.

“And what if we fail?” Iask when he finishes, finallyspeaking aloud the words

he’sbeenskirtingaround.He barely shakes his

head.“Thatwon’thappen.”“Butwhatifwedo?”I’m

not a prince,my life has notbeen charming. I know toexpect the worst out ofeverything and everyone.“What happens if we fail,Maven?”

His breath rattles in hischest as he inhales, fightingto remain calm. “Then we’ll

be traitors, both of us. Triedfor treason, convicted—andkilled.”

During my next lesson withJulian, I can’t concentrate. Ican’t focus on anything butwhat’s coming.Somuch cangowrong, and somuch is atstake. My life, Kilorn’s,Maven’s—we’re all puttingournecksonthelineforthis.

“It’s really not my

business, but,” Julian begins,his voice startling me, “youseem, well, very attached toPrinceMaven.”

I almost laugh in relief,butIcan’thelpbutfeelstungatthesametime.Maven’sthelast person I should be waryof in this pit of snakes. Justthe suggestion makes mebristle. “I am engaged tohim,” I reply, tryingmybestnottosnap.

But instead of letting itdrop, Julian leans forward.His placid demeanor usuallysoothes me, but today it’snothing but frustrating. “I’mjust trying to help you.Mavenishismother’sson.”

ThistimeIreallydosnap.“You don’t know a thingabout him.” Maven’s myfriend.Maven’s riskingmorethanme.“Judginghimbyhisparentsislikejudgingmefor

my blood. Just because youhate the king and queendoesn’t mean you can hatehimtoo.”

Julian stares at me, hisgaze level and full of fire.When he speaks, his voicesoundsmore like a growl. “Ihate the king because hecouldn’t save my sister,because he replaced herwiththat viper. I hate the queenbecause she ruined Sara

Skonos,becauseshe took thegirl I loved and broke herapart.Because shecutSara’stongueout.”And then lower,a lament, “She had such abeautifulvoice.”

Awaveofnauseawashesover me. Suddenly Sara’spainful silence, her sunkencheeks make sense. Nowonder Julian had her healme; she couldn’t tell anyonethetruth.

“But”—my words aresmallandhoarse,likeit’smyvoice being taken away—“she’sahealer.”

“Skin healers can’t healthemselves. And no onewould cross the queen’spunishment. So Sara has tolive like that, shamed,forever.” His voice echoeswith memories, each oneworse than the last. “Silversdon’t mind pain, but we are

proud. Pride, dignity, honor—those are things no abilitycanreplace.”

As terrible as I feel forSara,Ican’thelpbutfearformyself. They cut her tongueout for something she said.Whatwill theypossiblydo tome?

“You forget yourself,littlelightninggirl.”

Thenicknamefeelslikeaslapintheface,shockingme

backtoreality.“This world is not your

own. Learning to curtsy hasnot changed that. You don’tunderstand the game we’replaying.”

“Because this isn’t agame, Julian.” I push hisbook of records toward him,shoving the list of deadnames into his lap. “This islife and death. I’m notplaying for a throne or a

crown or a prince. I’m notplayingatall.I’mdifferent.”

“You are,” he murmurs,running a finger over thepages. “And that’s whyyou’re in danger, fromeveryone.EvenMaven.Evenme. Anyone can betrayanyone.”

His mind drifts, and hiseyes cloud over. In this lighthelooksoldandgray,abittermanhauntedbyadeadsister,

inlovewithabrokenwoman,doomed to teach a girl whocan do nothing but lie. Overhis shoulder, I glimpse themap of what was, of before.Thiswholeworldishaunted.

And then, the worstthought I’veeverhadcomes.Shade is already my ghost.Whoelsewilljoinhim?

“Make no mistake, mygirl,” he finally breathes.“Youareplayingthegameas

someone’spawn.”I don’t have the heart to

argue.Think what you want,Julian.I’mnoone’sfool.

Ptolemus Samos. ColonelMacanthos.TheirfacesdanceinmyheadasCalandIspinacross the floorof the sittingroom. Tonight the moon isshrinking, fading away, butmy hope has never beenstronger. The ball is

tomorrow, and afterward,well, I’mnot surewhere thatpathmightgo.Butitwillbeadifferent path, a new road toleadustowardabetterfuture.There will be collateraldamage, injuries and deathswecan’tavoid,asMavenputit. Butwe know the risks. Ifall goes to plan, the ScarletGuardwillhaveraiseditsflagwhere everyone can see.Farleywill broadcast another

video after the attack,detailing our demands.Equality, liberty, freedom.Next to all-out rebellion, itsoundslikeagooddeal.

My body dips, movingtowardthefloorinaslowarcthat makes me yelp. Cal’sstrongarmsclosearoundme,pullingmebackupinaneasysecond.

“Sorry,” he says, halfembarrassed. “Thought you

werereadyforit.”I’mnotready.I’mscared.

I force myself to laugh, tohide what I can’t show him.“No, my fault. Mindwanderedoffagain.”

Heisn’teasytochaseoffand dips his head a little,lookingmeintheeyes.“Stillworriedabouttheball?”

“Morethanyouknow.”“Onestepatatime,that’s

thebestyoucando.”Thenhe

laughs at himself,moving usback into simpler steps. “Iknowit’shardtobelieve,butI wasn’t always the bestdancereither.”

“How shocking,” Ianswer, matching his smile.“I thought princeswere bornwith the ability to dance andmakeidleconversation.”

He chuckles again,quickeningourpacewith themovement.“Notme. If Ihad

myway, I’dbe in thegarageor the barracks, building andtraining. Not like Maven.He’stwicetheprinceI’lleverbe.”

I think of Maven, of hiskindwords, perfectmanners,impeccable knowledge ofcourt—all the things hepretendstobetohidehistrueheart. Twice the princeindeed. “But he’ll only everbeaprince,”Imutter,almost

lamenting at the thought.“Andyou’llbeking.”

His voice drops to meetmyown,and somethingdarkshadows his gaze. There’s asadness in him, growingstrongereveryday.Maybehedoesn’tlikewarasmuchasIthink. “Sometimes I wish itdidn’thavetobethatway.”

He speaks softly, but hisvoice fills my head. Thoughtheballloomsontomorrow’s

horizon, I find myselfthinkingmoreabouthimandhis hands and the faint smellofwoodsmokethatseemstofollowCalwhereverhegoes.Itmakesmethinkofwarmth,ofautumn,ofhome.

I blame my rapidlybeating heart on themelody,themusic that brimswith somuch life. Somehow thisnight remindsme of Julian’slessons, his histories of the

world before our own. Thatwas a world of empires, ofcorruption,ofwar—andmorefreedom than I’ve everknown.Butthepeopleofthattimearegone,theirdreamsinruin, existing only in smokeandash.

It’s our nature, Julianwould say. We destroy. It’sthe constant of our kind. Nomatter the color of blood,manwillalwaysfall.

I didn’t understand thatlesson a few days ago, butnow, with Cal’s hands inmine, guiding me with thelightest touch, I’m beginningtoseewhathemeant.

Icanfeelmyselffalling.“Are you really going to

gowiththelegion?”Eventhewordsmakemeafraid.

He barely nods. “Ageneral’s place is with hismen.”

“A prince’s place is withhis princess. WithEvangeline,” I add hastily.Good one, Mare, my mindscreams.

The air around usthickens with heat, thoughCal doesn’t move at all.“She’ll be all right, I think.She’s not exactly attached tome.Iwon’tmisshereither.”

Unabletomeethisgaze,Ifocusonwhat’srightinfront

of me. Unfortunately, thathappenstobehischestandamuch-too-thin shirt. Aboveme,hetakesaraggedbreath.

Thenhisfingersareundermychin, tippingmyheaduptomeethisgaze.Gold flameflickersinhiseyes,reflectingthe heat beneath. “I’ll missyou,Mare.”

As much as I want tostandstill,tostoptimeandletthis moment last forever, I

know it’s not possible.Whatever I might feel orthink, Cal is not the princeI’m promised to. Moreimportant, he’s on thewrongside. He’s my enemy. Cal isforbidden.

Sowithhesitant,reluctantsteps,Ibackaway,outofhisgraspandoutof thecircleofwarmth I’ve gotten so usedto.

“I can’t,” is all I can

manage, though I know myeyes betray me. Even now Ican feel tears of anger andregret, tears I swore not tocry.

Butmaybetheprospectofgoing off to war has madeCal bold and reckless, thingsheneverwasbefore.Hetakesmebythehand,pullingmetohim. He’s betraying his onlybrother. I’m betraying mycause, Maven, and myself,

butIdon’twanttostop.Anyone can betray

anyone.Hislipsareonmine,hard

and warm and pressing. Thetouch is electrifying, but notlike I’mused to.This isn’t aspark of destruction but asparkoflife.

AsmuchasIwanttopullaway,Ijustcan’tdoit.Calisa cliff, and I throw myselfover the edge, not bothering

tothinkofwhatitcoulddotousboth.Onedayhe’llrealizeI’m his enemy, and all thiswill be a far-gone memory.Butnotyet.

NINETEEN

It takes hours to paint andpolish me into the girl I’msupposed to be, but it seemslikejustafewminutes.Whenthe maids stand me up infront of the mirror, silentlyaskingformyapproval,Icanonly nod at the girl staringback at me from the glass.She looks beautiful and

terrified by what’s to come,wrapped in shimmering silkchains.Ihavetohideher,thescared girl; I have to smileand dance and look like oneof them.With great effort, Ipushmyfearaway.Fearwillgetmekilled.

Mavenwaitsformeattheend of the hall, a shadow inhis dress uniform. Thecharcoalblackmakeshiseyesstand out, vibrantly blue

against pale white skin. Hedoesn’tlookscaredatall,butthen, he’s a prince. He’sSilver.Hewon’tflinch.

Heextendsanarmtowardme, and I gladly take it. Iexpect him to make me feelsafeorstrongorboth,buthistouchremindsmeofCalandour betrayal. Last nightcomes into sharper focus,until every breath stands outinmyhead.Foronce,Maven

doesn’t notice my unease.He’s thinking about moreimportantthings.

“You look beautiful,” hesaysquietly,noddingdownatmydress.

I don’t agree with him.It’s a silly, overdone thing, acomplicationofpurplejewelsthat sparklewhenever I turn,makingmelooklikeaglitterybug.Still,I’msupposedtobea lady tonight, a future

princess, so I nod and smilegratefully. I can’t help butremember that my lips, nowsmiling for Maven, werekissinghisbrotherlastnight.

“I just want this to beover.”

“It won’t end tonight,Mare.Thiswon’tbeoverfora long time. You know that,right?” He speaks likesomeone much older, muchwiser, not like a seventeen-

year-old boy. When Ihesitate, truly not knowinghow to feel,his jaw tightens.“Mare?” he prods, and I canhearthetremorsinhisvoice.

“Areyouafraid,Maven?”My words are weak, awhisper.“Iam.”

His eyes harden, shiftingintobluesteel.“I’mafraidoffailing. I’m afraid of lettingthis opportunity pass us by.And I’m afraid of what

happens if nothing in thisworld ever changes.” Heturns hot under my touch,driven by an inner resolve.“That scares me more thandying.”

It’s hard not to be sweptawaybyhiswords,andInodalong with him. How can Ibackout?Iwillnotflinch.

“Rise,” he murmurs, solowIbarelyhearhim.Redasthedawn.

Hisgriptightensonmeaswe come to the hall in frontof the lifts. A troop ofSentinelsguardsthekingandqueen, both waiting for us.Cal and Evangeline arenowhere to be found, and Ihope they stay away. ThelongerIdon’thavetolookatthemtogether,thehappierI’llbe.

Queen Elara wears asparkling monstrosity of red,

black, white, and blue,displaying the colors of herhouseandherhusband’s.Sheforces a smile, staring rightthroughmetoherson.

“Here we go,” Mavensays,lettinggoofmyhandtostandathismother’sside.Myskin feels strangely coldwithouthim.

“SohowlongdoIhavetobe here?” He forces a whineinto his voice, playing his

part well. The more he cankeepherdistracted,thebetterour chances. One poke intothe wrong head andeverything will go up insmoke.And get us all killedforgoodmeasure.

“Maven, you can’t justcome and go as you please.You have duties, and you’llstay as long as you’reneeded.”Shefussesoverhim,adjusting his collar, his

medals,hissleeves,andforamoment, it takes me offguard. This is awomanwhoinvaded my thoughts, whotook me away frommy life,who I hate, and still there’ssomething good. She lovesherson.Andforallherfaults,Mavenlovesher.

King Tiberias, on theother hand, doesn’t seembotheredbyMavenatall.Hebarelyglanceshisway. “The

boy’s justbored.Notenoughexcitementinhisday,notlikeback at the front,” he says,running a hand over histrimmed beard. “You need acause,Mavey.”

For a brief moment,Maven’s annoyed maskdrops. I have one, his eyesscream, but he keeps hismouthshut.

“Cal’s got his legion, heknowswhathe’sdoing,what

hewants.Youneed to figureout what you’re going to dowithyourself,eh?”

“Yes, Father,” Mavensays.Thoughhe tries tohideit,ashadowcrosseshisface.

I know that look verywell.Iusedtowearitmyself,when my parents would hintat me to be more like Gisa,even though that wasimpossible. I went to sleephating myself, wishing I

couldchange,wishingIcouldbe quiet and talented andpretty like her. There’snothing that hurts more thanthat feeling. But the kingdoesn’t noticeMaven’s pain,just like my parents nevernoticedmine.

“I thinkhelpingme fit inhere is cause enough forMaven,” I say, hoping todraw the king’s disapprovingeye away. When Tiberias

turnstome,Mavensighsandshootsmeagratefulsmile.

“And what a job he’sdone,” the king replies,lookingmeover.Iknowhe’sremembering the poor Redgirl who refused to bow tohim. “From what I hear,you’re close to aproper ladynow.”

But the smile he forcesdoesn’t reach his eyes, andthere’s no mistaking the

suspicionthere.Hewantedtokill me back in the throneroom, to protect his crownand the balance of hiscountry,andIdon’tthinktheurgewilleverfadeaway.I’ma threat, but I’m also aninvestment. He’ll use mewhen he wants and kill mewhenhemust.

“I’ve had good help, myking.”Ibow,pretendingtobeflattered,even thoughIdon’t

care what he thinks. Hisopinion isn’t worth the rustonmyfather’swheelchair.

“Are we just aboutready?” Cal’s voice says,shatteringmythoughts.

Mybody reacts, spinningaround to see him enter thehall.Mystomachchurns,butnotwithexcitementornervesoranyofthethingssillygirlstalk about. I feel sick withmyself, with what I let

happen—with what Iwantedtohappen.Thoughhetriestoholdmygaze,I tearmyeyesaway, to Evangeline hangingoff his arm. She’s wearingmetalagain,andshemanagesto smirk withoutmoving herlips.

“Your Majesties,” shemurmurs, dipping into amaddeninglyperfectcurtsy.

Tiberiassmilesather,hisson’sbride,beforeclappinga

handdownonCal’sshoulder.“Justwaitingonyou,son,”hechortles.

When they stand next toeach other, the familyresemblance is undeniable—same hair, same red-goldeyes, even the same posture.Mavenwatches,hisblueeyessoftandthoughtful,whilehismother keeps her grip on hisarm.WithEvangelineononeside and his father on the

other, Cal can’t do muchmore thanmeetmy eyes.Henodsslightly,andIknowit’stheonlygreetingIdeserve.

Despite the decorations, theballroomlooksthesameasitdid more than a month ago,when the queen first pulledme into this strange world,when my name and identitywereofficiallystrippedaway.They struck a blow against

mehere,andnowit’smyturntostrikeback.

Bloodwillspilltonight.But I can’t think of that

now.Ihavetostandwiththeothers, to speak with thehundred members of courtlined up to trade words withroyalty and one jumped-upRed liar. My eyes flit downthe line, looking for themarked ones—Maven’stargets given to the Guard,

the sparks to light a fire.Reynald, the colonel, Belicos—and Ptolemus. The silver-haired, dark-eyed brother ofEvangeline.

He is one of the first togreetus,standing justbehindhisseverefather,whohurriesalong to his daughter. WhenPtolemus approaches me, Ifight the urge to be sick.Never have I done anythingsodifficultaslookingintothe

eyesofadeadmanwalking.“My congratulations,” he

says, his voice hard as rock.Thehandheextendsisjustasfirm. He doesn’t wear amilitaryuniformbutasuitofblackmetal that fits togetherin smooth, gleaming scales.He’s a warrior but not asoldier.Likehisfatherbeforehim, Ptolemus leads theArcheon city guard,protectingthecapitalwithhis

own army of officers. Thehead of a snake, Mavencalled him before. Cut himdown and the rest will die.His hawkish eyes are on hissister, even while he holdsmyhand.He letsmego in ahurry, quickly passing byMaven and Cal beforeembracing Evangeline in arare display of affection. I’msurprised their stupid outfitsdon’tgetstucktogether.

If all goes to plan, he’llnever hug his sister again.Evangeline will have lost abrother, just like me. Eventhough I know that painfirsthand,Ican’tbringmyselfto feel sorry for her.Especially not with the wayshe holds on to Cal. Theylook likecompleteopposites,he in his simple uniformwhilesheglitterslikeastarinadressofrazorspikes.Iwant

to kill her, I want to be her.But there’s nothing I can doabout that. Evangeline andCal are not my problemtonight.

As Ptolemus disappearsand more people pass withcold smiles and sharpwords,itgetseasiertoforgetmyself.HouseIralgreetsusnext,ledby the lithe, languidmovements of Ara, thePanther. Tomy surprise, she

bowslowlytome,smilingasshe does so. But there’ssomething strange about it,something that tells me sheknowsmorethansheletson.She passes without a word,sparing me from anotherinterrogation.

Sonya follows hergrandmother,arminarmwithanother target: Reynald Iral,her cousin. Maven told mehe’s a financial adviser, a

genius who keeps the armyfunded with taxes and tradeschemes. If he dies, so doesthe money, and so will thewar. I’mwilling to tradeonetax collector for that. Whenhetakesmyhand,Ican’thelpbutnoticehiseyesarefrozenandhishandsaresoft.Thosehands will never touch mineagain.

It’snotaseasytodismissColonelMacanthoswhenshe

approaches. The scar on herface stands out sharply,especially tonight wheneveryone seems so polished.She might not care for theGuard,but shedidn’tbelievethe queen either. She wasn’tready to swallow the liesbeingspoon-fedtotherestofus.

Her grip is strong as sheshakes my hand; for oncesomeone isn’t afraid I’ll

break like glass. “Everyhappiness to you, LadyMareena. I can see this onesuitsyou.”Shejerksherheadtoward Maven. “Not likefancy Samos,” she adds in aplayfulwhisper.“She’llmakeasadqueen,andyouahappyprincess,markmywords.”

“Marked,” I breathe. Imanagetosmile,eventhoughthecolonel’slifewillsoonbeat an end. No matter how

many kind words she says,herminutesarenumbered.

When she moves on toMaven,shakinghishandandinvitinghimtoinspecttroopswithherinaweekorso,Icantellhe’sjustasaffected.Aftershe’sgone,hishanddropstomine, givingme a reassuringsqueeze. I know he regretsnamingher,butlikeReynald,like Ptolemus, her deathwillserveapurpose.Herlifewill

beworthitall,intheend.The next target comes

from much farther down theline, from a lower house.Belicos Lerolan has a jollygrin, chestnut hair, andsunset-colored clothes tomatch his house colors.UnliketheothersI’vegreetedtonight, he seems warm andkind. The smile behind hiseyes is as real as hishandshake.

“A pleasure, LadyMareena.” He inclines hishead in greeting, polite to afault.“Ilookforwardtomanyyearsinyourservice.”

I smile for him,pretending that there will bemany years to come, but thefacade becomes harder tohold as the seconds drag on.When his wife appears,leadingapairof twinboys,Iwant to scream. Barely four

years old and yowling likepuppies,theyclamberaroundtheir father’s legs.He smilessoftly,aprivatesmilejustforthem.

Adiplomat,Mavencalledhim, an ambassador to ourallies in Piedmont, far to thesouth. Without him, our tiestothatcountryandtheirarmywould be cut off, forcingNorta to stand alone againstour Red dawn. He’s another

sacrifice we must make,anothername to throwaway.And he’s a father. He’s afatherandwe’regoingtokillhim.

“Thank you, Belicos,”Maven says, holding out hishandforhimtoshake, tryingto draw the Lerolans awaybeforeIbreak.

I try to speak, but I canonly think about the fatherI’m about to steal from such

youngchildren.Inthebackofmymind, I rememberKilorncrying after his father died.Hewasyoungtoo.

“Excuse us a minute,wouldn’t you?” Maven’svoice sounds far away as hespeaks. “Mareena’s stillgettingusedtotheexcitementofcourt.”

Before I can glance backat the doomed father,Mavenhurries me away. A few

peoplegawkatus, and I canfeel Cal’s eyes following usout. I almost stumble, butMaven keeps me upright ashe pushes me out onto abalcony. Normally the freshairwould cheerme up, but Idoubtanythingcanhelpnow.

“Children.”Thewordsripoutofme.“He’safather.”

Maven lets me go, and Islump against the balconyrail,buthedoesn’tstepaway.

In the moonlight his eyeslook like ice, glowing andglaring intome.He puts onehand on either side of myshoulders, trapping me in,forcingmetolisten.

“Reynald is a father, too.The Colonel has children ofher own. Ptolemus is nowengaged to the Haven girl.Theyallhavepeople;theyallhave someone who willmourn them.” He forces out

thewords;he’sjustastornasI.“Wecan’tpickandchoosehow tohelp thecause,Mare.We must do what we can,whateverthecost.”

“Ican’tdothistothem.”“You think I want to do

this?” he breathes, his faceinches from mine. “I knowthem all, and it hurts me tobetray them, but it must bedone. Think what their liveswill buy, what their deaths

will accomplish. How manyof your people could besaved? I thought youunderstoodthis!”

He stops himself,squeezinghis eyes shut for amoment. When he collectshimself, he raises a hand tomyface,tracingtheoutlineofmy cheek with shakingfingers. “I’m sorry, I just—”Hisvoicefalters.“Youmightnot be able to see where

tonight will lead, but I can.And I know thiswill changethings.”

“I believe you,” Iwhisper, reaching up to holdhis hand in my own. “I justwish it didn’thave tobe thisway.”

Overhisshoulder,backinthe ballroom, the receivingline dwindles. Thehandshakes and pleasantriesare over. The night has truly

begun.“But it does, Mare. I

promise you, this iswhatwemustdo.”

As much as it hurts, asmuch asmy heart twists andbleeds,Inod.“Okay.”

“You two all right outhere?”

Fora second,Cal’svoicesounds strange and high, buthe clears his throat as hepokes out onto the balcony.

His eyes linger on my face.“Youreadyforthis,Mare?”

Maven answers for me.“She’sready.”

Together, we walk awayfromtherailingandthenightand the last bit of quiet wemight ever have.Aswepassthrough the archway, I feelthe ghost of a touch on myarm:Cal. I look back to seehim still staring, fingersoutstretched. His eyes are

darkerthanever,boilingwithsome emotion I can’t place.But before he can speak,Evangeline appears at hisside. When he takes her bythe hand, I have to tear myeyesaway.

Maven leads us to thecleared spot in the center ofthe ballroom. “This is thehard part,” he says, trying tocalmme.

It works a little bit, and

the shivers running throughmeebbaway.

We dance first, the twoprinces and their brides, infront of everyone. Anotherdisplay of strength andpower, showing off the twogirlswhowon in front of allthe families who lost. Rightnow it’s the last thing Iwantto do, but it’s for the cause.AstheelectronicmusicIhateclatterstolife,Irealizeit’sat

leastadanceIrecognize.Maven looks shocked

when my feet move intoplace. “You’ve beenpracticing?”

With your brother. “Abit.”

“You’re just full ofsurprises.” He chuckles,findingthewilltosmile.

Next to us, Cal twirlsEvangeline into place. Theylook like a king and queen

should, regal and cold andbeautiful. When Cal’s eyesmeet mine at the exactmoment his hands closearound her fingers, I feel athousandthingsatonce,noneof thempleasant.But insteadof wallowing, I move closerto Maven. He glances downatme,blueeyeswide,as themusic takes hold.A few feetaway, Cal takes his steps,leading Evangeline in the

same dance he taught me.She’s much better at it, allgrace and sharp beauty.AgainIfeellikefalling.

We spin across the floorin time with the music,surrounded by coldonlookers. I recognize thefacesnow.Iknowthehouses,the colors, the abilities, thehistories.Whotofear,whotopity. They watch us withhungryeyes,andIknowwhy.

They think we’re the future,Cal and Maven andEvangeline and even me.Theythinkthey’rewatchingakingandqueen, aprince andprincess.But that’safutureIdon’tintendtolethappen.

In my perfect world,Mavenwon’thavetohidehisheartandIwon’thavetohidewhoItrulyam.Calwillhaveno crown to wear, no throneto protect. These people will

have no more walls to hidebehind.

The dawn is coming foryouall.

We dance through twomore songs, and othercouples join us on the floor.Theswirlofcolorblocksoutany glimpse of Cal andEvangeline, until it feels likeMaven and I are spinningalone. For a moment, Cal’sface floats in front of me,

replacing his brother’s, and Ithink I’m back in the roomfullofmoonlight.

ButMaven isnotCal,nomatter how much his fathermight want him to be. Heisn’t a soldier, hewon’tbeaking, but he’s braver. Andhe’s willing to do what’sright.

“Thank you, Maven,” Iwhisper, barely audible overthehorriblemusic.

He doesn’t have to askwhatI’mtalkingabout.“Youdon’teverhavetothankme.”His voice is strangely deep,almost breaking as his eyesdarken.“Notforanything.”

This is the closest I’veever been to him, my noseinches away fromhisneck. Icanfeelhisheartbeatbeneathmyhands,hammeringintimewith my own. Maven is hismother’s son, Julian said

once. He couldn’t be morewrong.

Maven maneuvers us tothe edge of the dance floor,now crowded with swirlinglords and ladies.Noonewillnoticewe’vesteppedaway.

“Some refreshments?” aservantmurmurs,holdingouta tray of the fizzy goldendrink.Istart towavehimoffbefore I recognize his bottle-greeneyes.

I have to bite my tongueto keep from shouting hisnamealoud.Kilorn.

Strangely,thereduniformsuits him and for once hemanaged toclean thedirtoffhis face. It seems the fisherboyIknewisentirelygone.

“This thing itches,” hegrumbles under his breath.Maybenotentirely.

“Well, youwon’tbe in itmuch longer,” Maven says.

“Iseverythinginplace?”Kilorn nods, his eyes

darting through the crowd.“They’rereadyupstairs.”

Above us, Sentinelscrowdawraparound landing,lining the walls. But abovethem, in the carved windowalcoves and little balconiesnear the ceiling, the shadowsarenotSentinelsatall.

“Youjusthavetogivethesignal.”Heholdsoutthetray

and the innocent glass ofgold.

Mavenstraightensnexttome,hisshoulderagainstmineinsupport.“Mare?”

My turn now. “I’mready,” I murmur,remembering theplanMavenwhisperedtomeafewnightsago. Shivering, I let thefamiliar buzz of electricityflow throughme, until I canfeel every light and camera

blaze throughmy head. I lifttheglass,anddrinkdeeply.

Kilornisquicktotaketheglass back. “One minute.”Hisvoicesoundssofinal.

He disappears with aswish of his tray, movingthrough the crowd until Ican’tseehimanymore.Run,Ipray, hoping he’s fastenough.Mavengoesaswell,leaving me to carry out hisowntaskathismother’sside.

I head toward the centerof thecrowdevenas thefeelof electricity threatens toovertakeme.ButIcan’tletitgo yet. Not until they start.Thirtyseconds.

King Tiberias loomsahead of me, laughing awaywith his favorite son. Helooks tobeonhis thirdglassof wine, and his cheeks areflushed silver,whileCal sipspolitely atwater.Somewhere

to my left, I hearEvangeline’scuttinglaughter,probablywithherbrother.Allover the room, four peopletaketheirlastbreaths.

I let my heart count outthose last seconds, beatingaway themoments.Calspotsme through the crowd,grinningthatsmileIlove,andstartstocometowardme.Buthe will never reach me, notbefore the deed is done. The

world slows until all I knowis the shocking strengthwithin the walls. Like inTraining,likewithJulian,I’mlearningtocontrolit.

Fourshotsringout,pairedwith four bright flashes fromthegunshighabove.

Thescreamscomenext.

TWENTY

I scream with them, and thelightsflash, thenflicker, thenfail.

One minute of darkness.That’s what I need to givethem. The screams, theyelling, the stampede of feetalmost break myconcentration, but I forcemyself to focus. The lights

flash horribly, then die,making it almost impossibleto move.Making it possibleformyfriendstoslipaway.

“In the alcoves!” a voiceroars, yelling over the chaos.“They’re running!” Morevoices join the call, thoughnoneare familiar.But in thismadness, everyone soundsdifferent.“Find them!”“Stopthem!”“Killthem!”

The Sentinels on the

landinghavetheirgunsaimedwhilemorebluralong,barelyshadows as they give chase.Walsh iswith them, I remindmyself. If Walsh and otherservants could sneak FarleyandKilorninbefore,theycansneak them out again. Theycan hide. They can escape.They’llbefine.

My darkness will savethem.

A blaze of fire erupts

from the crowd, curlingthroughtheairlikeaflamingsnake. It roars overhead,illuminating the dimballroom.Flickeringshadowspaint the walls and theupturned faces, transformingtheballroomintoanightmareof red light and gunpowder.Sonya screams nearby, bentover the body of Reynald.ThespryoldArawrestlesheroff the corpse, pulling her

away from the chaos.Reynald’s eyes stare glassilyup at the ceiling, reflectingtheredlight.

Still I hold on, everymuscle inside me hard andtense.

Somewhere near the fire,I recognize theking’sguardshurrying him from the room.He tries to fight them,shouting and yelling to stay,butforoncetheydon’tfollow

his orders. Elara is closebehind, pushedonbyMavenas they run from danger.Many more follow, eager tobefreeofthisplace.

Security officers runagainst the tide, flooding theroom with shouts andstamping boots. Lords andladies press by me in anattempt to escape, but I canonly stand in place, holdingonasbestIcan.Noonetries

to pull me away; no onenotices me at all. They areafraid. For all their strength,all their power, they stillknow the meaning of fear.And a few bullets are all ittakes to bring terror out inthem.

Aweepingwomanbumpsintome,knockingmeover. Iland face-to-face with acorpse, staring at ColonelMacanthos’s scar. Silver

blood tricklesdownher face,from her forehead to thefloor. The bullet hole isstrange, surrounded by gray,rocky flesh. She was astoneskin.Shewasalivelongenough to try and stop it, toshield herself. But the bulletcouldn’tbe stopped.She stilldied.

I push back from themurdered woman, but myhandsslidethroughamixture

of silverblood and wine. Ascream escapes me in aterrifying combination offrustration and grief. Thebloodclingstomyhands,likeit knowswhat I’vedone. It’ssticky and cold andeverywhere, trying to drownme.

“MARE!”Strong arms pull me

along the floor, draggingmeaway from the woman I let

die. “Mare, please—,” thevoice pleads, but for what, Idon’tknow.

Witharoaroffrustration,I lose the battle. The lightsreturn, revealing a war zoneofsilkanddeath.WhenI tryto scramble to my feet, tomake sure the job is reallydone,ahandpushesmebackdown.

I say the words I must,playing my own part in all

this.“I’msorry—thelights—I can’t—” Overhead, thelightsflickeragain.

Cal barely hears me anddropstohiskneesnexttome.“Where are you hit?” heroars,checkingmeinthewayIknowhe’sbeentrained.Hisfingers feel down my armsand legs, looking for awound, for the source of somuchblood.

Myvoice sounds strange.

Soft. Broken. “I’m fine.” Hedoesn’t hear me again. “Cal,I’mfine.”

Relieffloodshisface,andforasecondI thinkhemightkissmeagain.Buthissensesreturn quicker than mine.“You’resure?”

Gingerly, I raise a silver-stainedsleeve.“Howcanthisbemine?”

Mybloodisnotthiscolor.Youknowthat.

He nods. “Of course,” hewhispers. “I just—I saw youonthegroundandIthought.. .” His words trail away,replacedbyaterriblesadnessin his eyes. But it fadesquickly, shifting todetermination. “Lucas! Getheroutofhere!”

My personal guardcharges through the fray, hisgun at the ready. Though helooks the same in his boots

and uniform, this is not theLucasIknow.Hisblackeyes,Samoseyes,aredarkasnight.“I’ll take her to the others,”hegrowls,hoistingmeup.

Though I know betterthan anyone the danger isgone, I can’t help but reachout to Cal. “What aboutyou?”

Heshrugsoutofmygraspwith shocking ease. “I’m notrunning.”

And then he turns, hisshoulders squared to a groupof Sentinels. He steps overthe corpses, head inclined tothe ceiling.ASentinel tosseshim a handgun, and hecatches it deftly, putting afingertothetrigger.Hisotherhand blazes to life, cracklingwith dark and deadly flame.Silhouetted against theSentinels and the bodies onthe floor, he looks like

anotherpersonentirely.“Let’s go hunting,” he

growls, and charges up thestairs. Sentinels and Securityfollow, like a cloud of red-and-black smoke trailingbehindhis flame.They leaveaablood-spatteredballroom,hazywithdustandscreams.

In the center of it all liesBelicos Lerolan, pierced notbyabulletbutasilver lance.Shot from a spear gun, like

the ones used to fish. Atatteredscarletsashfallsfromtheshaft,barelystirringinthewhirlwind. There’s a symbolstampedonit—thetornsun.

Then the ballroom isgone, swallowed up by thedark walls of a servicepassage.Theground rumblesbeneath our feet and Lucasthrows me to the wall,shielding me. A sound likethunder reverberates and the

ceiling shakes, droppingpieces of stone down on us.Thedoor behindus explodesinward, destroyed by flame.Beyond,theballroomisblackwithsmoke.Anexplosion.

“Cal—” I try to squirmawayfromLucas,torunbackthe way we came, but hethrows me back. “Lucas, wehavetohelphim!”

“Trustme, a bombwon’tbothertheprince,”hegrowls,

movingmeforward.“A bomb?” That wasn’t

partof theplan. “Was that abomb?”

Lucas draws back fromme, positively shaking inanger. “You saw that bloodyred scarf. This is the ScarletGuard and that”—he pointsback to the ballroom, stilldark and burning—“that iswhotheyare.”

“This doesn’t make

sense,” I murmur to myself,trying to remember everyfacet of the plan. Mavennever toldme about a bomb.Never. And Kilorn wouldn’tletmedothis,notifheknewI would be in danger. Theywouldn’tdothistome.

Lucasholstershisgun,hisvoice a growl. “Killers don’thavetomakesense.”

My breath catches in mythroat. How many were left

back there? How manychildren, howmany needlessdeaths?

Lucas takes my silencefor shock, but he’s wrong.WhatIfeelnowisanger.

Anyone can betrayanyone.

Lucas leadsmeunderground,through no less than threedoors, each one a foot thickandmadeofsteel.Theyhave

no locks, but he opens themwith a flick of his hand. ItremindsmeofthefirsttimeImet him, when he wavedapartthebarsofmycell.

I hear the others before Iseethem,theirvoicesechoingoff the metal walls as theyspeak to one another. Theking rails, hiswords sendingshivers through me. Hispresence seems to fill thebunker as he paces up and

down, his cloak flapping outbehindhim.

“I want them found. Iwanttheminfrontofmewitha blade at their backs, and Iwant them to sing like thecowardlybirds theyare!”Headdresses a Sentinel, but themasked woman doesn’t evenflinch. “I want to knowwhat’sgoingon!”

Elara sits in a chair, onehandoverherheart,theother

clutchingtightlytoMaven.He starts at the sight of

me. “Are you all right?” hebreathes, pulling me into aquickembrace.

“Just shaken,” I managetosay,tryingtocommunicateas much as I can. But withElara so close, I can barelyallow myself to think, letalone speak. “There was anexplosion after the shots. Abomb.”

Maven furrows his brow,confused, but he quicklymasks it with rage.“Bastards.”

“Savages,” King Tiberiashisses through gritted teeth.“Andwhataboutmyson?”

Mygaze trails toMaven,before I realize the kingdoesn’t mean Maven at all.Maventakesitinstride.He’susedtobeingoverlooked.

“Cal went after the

shooters. He took a band ofSentinels with him.” Thememory of him, dark andangry as a flame, frightensme. “And then the ballroomexploded. I don’t know howmany were still—still inthere.”

“Was thereanythingelse,dear?” Coming from Elara,the term of endearment feelslike an electric shock. Shelooks paler than ever, her

breath coming in shallowpants. She’s afraid.“Anythingyouremember?”

“There was a banner,attached to a spear. TheScarletGuarddidthis.”

“Did they?” she says,raising a single eyebrow. Ifight the urge to back away,to run from her and herwhispers. At any moment Iexpect to feelher slither intomyhead,topulloutthetruth.

Butinstead,Elararipshereyes away and turns on theking. “You see what you’vedone?”Herlipcurlsoverherteeth. In the light, they looklikeglitteringfangs.

“Me? You called theGuard small and weak, youlied to our people,” Tiberiassnarls back at her. “Youractions have weakened usagainstthedanger,notmine.”

“And if you took care of

thiswhenyouhadthechance,when they were small andweak, this would have neverhappened!”

Theyripateachotherlikestarveddogs,eachone tryingtotakeabiggerbite.

“Elara, they were notterrorists then. I could notwaste my soldiers andofficers on hunting down afew Reds writing pamphlets.Theydidnoharm.”

Slowly, Elara points tothe ceiling. “Does that seemlikenoharmtoyou?”Hehasno answer for her, and shesmirks,delighting inwinningthe argument. “One day youmen will learn to payattention and all the worldwill tremble. They are adisease, one you allowed totakehold.Andit’stimetokillthisdiseasewhereitgrows.”

Shestandsfromherchair,

collecting herself. “They areRed devils, and they musthave allies inside our ownwalls.” I domy best to keepstill, my eyes fixed on thefloor. “I think I’ll have aword with the servants.Officer Samos, if youwould?”

He jumps to attention,opening the vault door forher. She sweeps out, twoSentinels in tow, like a

hurricaneofrage.Lucasgoeswith her, opening the heavydoorsinsuccession,eachoneclanging farther and fartheraway. I don’t want to knowwhatthequeenwilldototheservants, but I know it willhurtandIknowwhatshewillfind—nothing. Walsh andHolland fled with Farley,according to our plan. Theyknew it would be toodangerous for them after the

ball—andtheywereright.Thethickmetalclosesfor

afewmoments,onlytoswingopen again. Anothermagnetron directs it:Evangeline. She looks likehell in a party dress, herjewelrymangledandteethonedge. Worst of all are hereyes, wild and wet andstreamingwithblackmakeup.Ptolemus. She weeps for herdead brother. Even though I

tellmyselfIdon’tcare,Ihavetoresisttheurgetoreachoutandcomforther.Butitpassesas soon as her companionentersthebunkerbehindher.

There’s smoke and sootonhisskin,dirtyinghisonceclean uniform. Normally I’dbe concerned at the ragged,hatefullookinCal’seyes,butsomething else strikes fearinto my bones. Blood stainshis black uniform and drips

overhishands.Itisnotsilver.Red.Thebloodisred.

“Mare,” he says to me,but all his warmth is gone.“Comewithme.Now.”

Hiswords are directed atme, but everyone follows,pushing through thepassagesasheleadsustothecells.Myheart hammers in my chest,threatening to explode out ofme. Not Kilorn. Anyone buthim.Mavenkeeps a hand on

my shoulder, holding meclose. At first I think he’scomforting me, but then hetugs me back: he’s trying tokeepmefromrunningahead.

“You should’ve killedhim where he stood,”Evangeline says to Cal. Herfingerspluckattheredbloodonhisshirt.“Iwouldn’tleavetheReddevilalive.”

Him. My teeth bite mylips, holding my mouth

closed so I don’t saysomething stupid. Maven’shand tightens like a claw onmyshoulderandIcanfeelhispulse quicken. For all weknow, this might be the endofourgame.Elarawillcomeback and shatter their brains,pickingthroughthewreckageto discover how deep theirplotgoes.

The steps to the cells arethe same but seem longer,

stretching down into thedeepestpartsoftheHall.Thedungeonrisestogreetus,andno less than six Sentinelsstandguard.Anicychillrunsthroughmybones,butIdon’tshiver.Icanbarelymove.

Four figures stand in thecell, each one bloody andbruised. Despite the dimlight, I know them all.Walsh’s eye is swollen shut,but she seems all right. Not

like Tristan, leaning againstthewalltotakepressureoffalegwetwithblood.There’sahasty bandage around thewound, torn from Kilorn’sshirt by the looks of it. Forhis part, Kilorn looksunscathed, tomygreat relief.He supports Farley with anarm, lettingher stand againsthim. Her shoulder isdislocated, one arm hangingat a strange angle. But that

doesn’t stop her fromsneeringatus.Sheevenspitsthrough the bars, a mix ofbloodandsalivathat landsatEvangeline’sfeet.

“Take her tongue forthat,” Evangeline snarls,rushingatthebars.Shestopsshort, one hand slammingagainstthemetal.Thoughshecould tear it away with athought,rippingapartthecelland the people inside, she

restrainsherself.Farley holds her gaze,

barely blinking at theoutburst. If this is her end,she’s certainly going to gowith her head high. “A littleviolentforaprincess.”

Before Evangeline canlosehertemper,Calpullsherback from the bars. Slowly,he raises a hand, pointing.“You.”

With a horrific lurch, I

realize he’s pointing atKilorn.Amuscle twitches inKilorn’s cheek, but he keepshiseyesonthefloor.

Cal remembers him.Fromthenighthebroughtmehome.

“Mare,explainthis.”Iopenmymouth,hoping

some fantastic lie will fallout,butnothingcomes.

Cal’sgazedarkens.“He’syourfriend.Explainthis.”

Evangeline gasps andturns herwrath onme. “Youbrought him here!” shescreeches, jumping at me.“Youdidthis?!”

“I did n-nothing,” Istammer, feeling all the eyesintheroomonme.“Imean,Idid get him a job here. Hewas at the lumberyards andit’s hard work, deadly work—”Theliestumblefromme,each one quicker than the

last. “He’s—he was myfriend, back in the village. Ijust wanted to make sure hewasokay.Igothimthejobasa servant, just like—” Myeyes trail to Cal. Both of usremember the night we firstmet, and the day thatfollowed. “I thought I washelpinghim.”

Maven takes a steptowardthecell,lookingatourfriends like it’s the first time

he’s ever seen them. Hegesturestotheirreduniforms.“They seem to be onlyservants.”

“I’d say the same, exceptwe found them trying toescape through a drainpipe,”Cal snaps. “Took us a whiletodragthemout.”

“Isthisallofthem?”KingTiberias says, peeringthroughthecellbars.

Cal shakes his head.

“Thereweremoreahead,butthey got to the river. Howmany,Idon’tknow.”

“Well, let’s find out,”Evangeline says, hereyebrowsraised.“Callforthequeen.Andinthemeantime.. .” She faces the king.Beneathhisbeard,hegrinsalittleandnods.

I don’t have to ask toknow what they’re thinkingabout.Torture.

The four prisoners standstrong, not even flinching.Maven’s jawworks furiouslyas he tries to think of awayout of this, but he knowsthere isn’t one. If anything,this might be more than wecould hope for. If theymanage to lie. But how canweaskthemto?Howcanwewatch them screamwhile westandtall?

Kilorn seems to have an

answer for me. Even in thisawful place, his green eyesmanagetoshine.Iwilllieforyou.

“Cal,I leavethehonortoyou,” thekingsays, restingahandonhis son’s shoulder. Ican only stare, pleadingwithwide eyes, praying Cal willnotdoashisfatherasks.

He glances at me once,like somehow that counts asan apology.Then he turns to

a Sentinel, shorter than theothers.Hereyessparklegray-whitebehindhermask.

“Sentinel Gliacon, I findmyselfinneedofsomeice.”

What that means, I haveno idea, but Evangelinegiggles.“Goodchoice.”

“You don’t need to seethis,” Maven mutters, tryingto pullme away. But I can’tleave Kilorn. Not now. Iangrily shrug him off, my

eyesstillonmyfriend.“Let her stay,”

Evangeline crows, takingpleasure in my discomfort.“This will teach her to treatReds as friends.” She turnsbacktothecell,wavingopenthe bars. With one whitefinger,shepoints.“Startwithher.Sheneedstobebroken.”

The Sentinel nods andseizes Farley by the wrist,pulling her out of the cell.

Thebarsslidebackintoplacebehind her, trapping the restin.Walsh andKilorn rush tothe bars, both of them thepictureoffear.

TheSentinelforcesFarleyto her knees, waiting for hernextorder.“Sir?”

Cal moves to stand overher, breathing heavily. Hehesitatesbeforespeaking,buthis voice is strong. “Howmanymoreofyouarethere?”

Farley’s jaw locks inplace, her teeth together.She’lldiebeforeshetalks.

“Startwiththearm.”TheSentinelisnotgentle,

wrenching out Farley’swoundedarm.Farleyyelpsinpain but still says nothing. IttakeseverythingIhavenottostriketheSentinel.

“And you call us thesavages,” Kilorn spits,foreheadagainstthebars.

Slowly,theSentinelpeelsaway Farley’s blood-soakedsleeve and sets pale, cruelhands to her skin. Farleyscreams at the touch, butwhy,Ican’tsay.

“Where are the others?”Cal questions, kneeling tolook her in the eyes. For amoment she falls quiet,drawing a ragged breath. Heleansin,patientlywaitingforhertobreak.

Instead, Farley snapsforward, head butting himwithallherstrength.“Weareeverywhere.”She laughs,butscreamsagainastheSentinelresumeshertorture.

Cal recovers neatly, onehandtohisnowbrokennose.Another person might strikeback,buthedoesn’t.

Red pinpricks appear onFarley’s arm, around theSentinel’s hand. They grow

with each passing second,sharp and shiny red pointssticking straight out of nowbluishskin.SentinelGliacon.House Gliacon. My mindflies back to Protocol, to thehouselessons.Shivers.

Withalurch,IunderstandandIhavetolookaway.

“That’sblood,”Iwhisper,unable to look back. “She’sfreezing her blood.” Mavenonlynods,hiseyesgraveand

fullofsorrow.Behind us, the Sentinel

continuestowork,movingupFarley’s arm. Red iciclessharpasrazorspiercethroughher flesh, slicing everynervein a pain I can’t imagine.Farley’s breath whistlesthroughgrittedteeth.Stillshesays nothing.My heart racesas the seconds tick by,wondering when the queenwill return, wondering when

ourplaywillbetrulyover.Finally, Cal jumps to his

feet.“Enough.”Another Sentinel, a

Skonos skin healer, dropsdown next to Farley. She allbut collapses, staring blanklyat her arm, now jagged withknives of frozen blood. Thenew Sentinel heals herquickly, hands moving in apracticedfashion.

Farley chuckles darkly as

the warmth returns to herarm.“Alltodoitagain,eh?”

Calfoldshisarmsbehindhis back. He shares a glancewith his father, who nods.“Indeed,” Cal sighs, lookingback to the shiver. But shedoesn’t get a chance tocontinue.

“WHERE IS SHE?” aterrible voice screams,echoingdownthestairs tousbelow.

Evangeline whirls at thenoise, rushing to the bottomof the stairs. “I’m here!” sheshoutsback.

When Ptolemus Samossteps down to embrace hissister, I have to digmy nailsinto my palm to keep fromreacting. There he stands,alive and breathing andterribly angry. On the floor,Farleycursestoherself.

He only lingers for a

moment and sidestepsEvangeline, a terrifying furyin his eyes.His armored suitis mangled at the shoulder,pulverized by a bullet. Buttheskinbeneath isunbroken.Healed.Heprowlstowardthecell,handsflexing.Themetalbars quiver in their sockets,screechingagainstconcrete.

“Ptolemus, not yet—,”Calgrowls,grabbingforhim,but Ptolemus shoves the

princeoff.DespiteCal’s sizeand strength, he stumblesbackward.

Evangeline runs at herbrother, pulling his hand.“No, we need them to talk!”Withoneshrugofhisarmhebreakshergrip—notevenshecanstophim.

The bars crack, shriekingwith his power as the cellopens to him. Not even theSentinels can stop him as he

strides forward, movingquickly with practicedmotions. Kilorn and Walshscramble, jumping backagainst the stone walls, butPtolemus is a predator, andpredators attack the weak.With his broken leg, barelyable tomove,Tristandoesn’tstandachance.

“Youwillnotthreatenmysister again,” Ptolemus roars,directingthemetalbarsofthe

cell.OnespearsrightthroughTristan’s chest. He gasps,choking on his own blood,dying.AndPtolemusactuallysmiles.

Whenhe turnsonKilorn,murderinhisheart,Isnap.

Sparksblazetolifeinmyskin. When my hand closesaround Ptolemus’s muscledneck,Iletthesparksgo.Theyshock into him, lightningdancing through his veins,

andheseizesundermytouch.The metal of his uniformvibrates and smokes, almostcooking him alive. And thenhedropstotheconcretefloor,his body still shaking withsparks.

“Ptolemus!” Evangelinescrambles to his side,reachingforhisface.Ashockjumps to her fingers, forcinghertofallbackwithascowl.She rounds onme in a blaze

ofanger.“Howdareyou—!”“He’ll be fine.” I didn’t

hithimwithenoughtodoanyreal damage. “Like you said,we need them to talk. Theycan’tdothatifthey’redead.”

The others stare at mewith a strange mix ofemotions, their eyes wide—and afraid. Cal, the boy Ikissed, the soldier, the brute,can’t hold my gaze at all. Irecognize the expression on

his face: shame.But becausehehurtFarley,orbecausehecouldn’t make her talk, Idon’t know. At least Mavenhas the good sense to looksad, his stare resting onTristan’sstillbleedingbody.

“Mothercanattendtotheprisoners later,” he says,addressing theking. “But thepeople upstairs will want toseetheirkingandknowheissafe.Somanyhavedied.You

should comfort them, Father.Andyouaswell,Cal.”

He’s playing for time.Brilliant Maven is trying tobuyusachance.

Eventhoughitmakesmyskin crawl, I reach out totouch Cal’s shoulder. Hekissed me once. He mightstill listen when I speak.“He’s right, Cal. This canwait.”

Still on the floor,

Evangeline bares her teeth.“Thecourtwillwantanswers,not embraces! This must bedonenow!YourMajesty, ripthetruthfromthem—”

ButevenTiberiasseesthewisdom of Maven’s words.“Theywill keep,” he echoes.“Andtomorrowthetruthwillbeknown.”

MygriptightensonCal’sarm,feelingthetensemusclesbeneath. He relaxes into my

touch, looking like a greatweighthasfallenoffhim.

The Sentinels jump toattentionandpullFarleybackintothebrokencell.Hereyesstay on me, wondering whatthehellIhaveinmind.IwishIknew.

Evangeline half dragsPtolemusout, letting thebarsknit together behind her.“You are weak, my prince,”shehissesintoCal’sear.

I resist the urge to lookback at Kilorn, as his wordsecho inmyhead.Stop tryingtoprotectme.

Iwillnot.

Blood drips frommy sleeve,leaving a spotted silver trailin my wake as we march tothe throne room. Sentinelsand Security guard theimmense door, their gunsraised and aimed at the

passageway. They don’tmove as we pass, frozen inplace.Theirordersaretokill,should the need arise.Beyond, the grand chamberechoes with anger andsorrow. I want to feel someshred of victory, but thememory of Kilorn behindbarsdampensanyhappinessImight have. Even thecolonel’s glassy eyes hauntme.

I move to Cal’s side. Hebarely notices, his eyesburning at the floor. “Howmanydead?”

“Ten so far,” he mutters.“Three in the shooting, eightintheexplosion.Fifteenmorewounded.”Itsoundslikehe’slisting groceries, not people.“Butthey’llallheal.”

He jerks his thumb,gesturing to the healersrunning among the injured. I

count two children amongthem. And beyond thewoundedarethebodiesofthedead, laid out before theking’s throne. BelicosLerolan’s twin sons lie nextto him, with their weepingmotherholdingvigiloverthebodies.

Ihavetoputahandtomymouth to keep fromgasping.Ineverwantedthis.

Maven’swarmhandstake

mine, pulling me past thegruesome scene to our placeby the throne. Cal standsclose by, trying in vain towipe the red blood off hishands.

“The time for tears isover,”Tiberiasthunders,fistsclenching at his sides. Incompleteunison,thesobsandsniffles through the chamberdie out. “Now we honor thedead, heal the wounded, and

avenge our fallen. I am theking.Idonotforget.Idonotforgive.Ihavebeenlenientinthe past, allowing our Redbrothers a good life full ofprosperity, of dignity. Butthey spit uponus, they rejectour mercy, and they havebrought upon themselves theworstkindofdoom.”

With a snarl, he throwsdownthesilverspearandredrag.Itclattersacrossthefloor

with a sound like a funeralbell.Thetornsunstaresatusall.

“These fools, theseterrorists, these murderers,will be brought to justice.Andtheywilldie.Iswearonmy crown, onmy throne, onmysons,theywilldie.”

A rumblingmurmur goesthrough the crowd as eachSilver stirs. They stand asone, wounded or not. The

metallic smell of blood isalmostoverpowering.

“Strength,” the courtscreams.“Power!Death!”

Mavenglancesatme,hiseyeswideandafraid. Iknowwhathe’s thinking,becauseIthinkittoo.

Whathavewedone?

TWENTY-ONE

Back in my room, I rip theruined dress off, letting thesilk fall to the floor. Theking’s words replay in myhead, peppered with flashesofthisterriblenight.Kilorn’seyesstandoutthroughitall,agreen fire burning me up. Imustprotecthim,buthow?Ifonly I could trademyself for

him again, my freedom forhis. If only things were thatsimple anymore. Julian’slessons have never felt sosharpinmymind:thepastisso much greater than thisfuture.

Julian.Julian.The residence halls crawl

with Sentinels and Security,every one of them on edge.ButI’velongperfectedtheartofslippingbyunnoticed,and

Julian’sdoorisnotfaraway.Despitethehour,he’sawake,poring over books.Everything looks the same,like nothing’s happened.Maybehedoesn’t know.Butthen I notice the bottle ofbrown liquor on the table,occupying a spot usuallyreservedfortea.Ofcourseheknows.

“In lightof recentevents,I would think our lessons

have been canceled for thetimebeing,”hesaysover thepages of his book. Still, heshuts it with a snap, turninghisfullattentiononme.“Nottomentionit’squitelate.”

“Ineedyou,Julian.”“Does this have anything

todowiththeSunShooting?Yes, they’ve already thoughtupaclevername.”Hepointstothedarkvideoscreeninthecorner.“It’sbeenonthenews

for hours now. The king’saddressing the country in themorning.”

I remember the fluffyblond newswoman reportingthe capital bombing morethanamonthago.Therewerefewinjuriesthen,andstillthemarketplacerioted.Whatwillthey do now? How manyinnocentRedswillpay?

“Or is this about the fourterrorists currently locked in

the cells of this structure?”Julian presses on, measuringmy response. “Excuse me, Imean three. Ptolemus Samoscertainly lives up to hisreputation.”

“They’renot terrorists,” Ireply calmly, trying to keepmyselfincheck.

“Shall I show you thedefinition of terrorism,Mare?” His tone stings.“Their cause might be just,

buttheirmethods...besides,whatyousaydoesn’tmatter.”He gestures to the videoscreen again. “They havetheirownversionofthetruth,andthat’stheonlyonepeoplewillhear.”

My teeth grind togetherpainfully,boneonbone.“Areyougoingtohelpornot?”

“I am a teacher andsomewhat of an outcast, incase you haven’t noticed.

WhatcanIpossiblydo?”“Julian,please.”Icanfeel

my last chance slippingthrough my fingers. “You’rea singer, you can tell theguards—make them doanything you want. You cansettheprisonersfree.”

But he remains still,sipping peacefully at hisdrink. He doesn’t grimacelike men normally do. Thebite of alcohol is familiar to

him.“Tomorrow they’ll be

interrogated. And no matterhow strong they are, nomatter how long they holdout, the truthwill be found.”Slowly, I take Julian’s hand,holding fingers worn roughbypaper.“Thiswasmyplan.I’moneofthem.”Hedoesn’tneedtoknowaboutMaven.Itwillonlymakehimangrier.

The half lie does its job

well. I can see it in Julian’seyes.

“You? You did this?” hestammers. “The shooting, thebombing—?”

“The bomb was . . .unexpected.”Thebombwasahorror.

He narrows his eyes, andI can see the cogs turning inhis mind. Then he snapsentirely. “I told you, I toldyou not to get in over your

head!” He slams a fist downon the table, looking angrierthan I’ve ever seen himbefore. “And now,” hebreathes, staring at me withsomuchsorrow itmakesmyhearthurt,“nowImustwatchyoudrown?”

“Iftheyescape...”Hethrowsbacktherestof

hisdrinkwithagulp.Withasnapofhiswrist,hesmashestheglassonthefloor,making

me jump. “And what aboutme? Even if I take away thecameras, the guards’memories, anything thatcould implicate either of us,the queen will know.”Shaking his head, he sighs.“She’ll take my eyes forthis.”

And Julian will neverreadagain.HowcanIaskforthat?

“Then let me die.” The

words stick in my throat. “Ideserve it as much as theydo.”

He can’t let me die. Hewon’t.Iamthelittlelightninggirl,and Iamgoing tomaketheworldchange.

Whenhespeaksagain,hesoundshollow.

“They called my sister’sdeath a suicide.” Slowly, hetraces his fingers across hiswrist,dwellingonalong-ago

memory.“Thatwasalie,andI knew it. She was a sadwoman, but she neverwouldhave done such a thing. Notwhen she hadCal, andTibe.Shewasmurdered,andIsaidnothing.Iwasafraid,andIlether die in shame. And sincethatday,I’vebeenworkingtofix that, waiting in theshadows of this monstrousworld,waitingformytimetoavenge her.” He raises his

eyestome.Theysparklewithtears.“Isupposethiswillbeagoodplacetostart.”

Itdoesn’ttakelongforJulianto figure out a plan. All weneedisamagnetronandsomeblind cameras, and luckily, Icanprovideboth.

Lucas knocks on mybedroom door not twominutesafterIsummonhim.

“What can I do for you,

Mare?”hesays, jumpierthanusual. I know his timeoverseeing the queen’sinterrogationofservantsmustnot have been easy. At leasthe’ll be too distracted tonoticeI’mshaking.

“I’m hungry.” Therehearsed words come easierthantheyshould.“Youknow,dinner never happened, so Iwaswondering—”

“Do I look like a cook?

You should’ve called thekitchens,that’stheirjob.”

“Ijust,well,Idon’tthinknow’s a good time for theservants to be roamingaround.Peoplearestillprettyon edge, and I don’t wantanyonegettinghurtbecauseIdidn’t get dinner. You’d justhave to escort me, that’s all.And who knows, you mightgetacookieoutofit.”

Sighing like an annoyed

teenager, Lucas holds out anarm.As I take it, I glance atthe cameras in the hall,makingthemdieoff.Herewego.

Ishouldfeelwrongaboutusing Lucas, knowingfirsthand what it’s like tohave your mind toyed with,but this is for Kilorn’s life.Lucasisstillchatteringwhenwe turn the corner, runningsmackintoJulian.

“Lord Jacos—,” Lucasbegins, moving to bow hishead,butJuliantakeshimbythechin,movingquickerthanI ever thought he could.Before Lucas can respond,Julianglaresintohiseyesandthe struggle dies before itevenbegins.

His honeyed words,smooth as butter and strongas iron, fall on open ears.“Takeustothecells.Usethe

service halls. Keep us awayfrom patrols. Do notrememberthis.”

Lucas, usually all smilesandjokes,fallsintoastrange,half-hypnotized state. Hiseyes glaze over and hedoesn’t notice when Julianreachesdowntotakehisgun.Buthemarches all the same,leading us through the mazeof the Hall. At each turn Iwait for the feel of electric

eyes, shutting off everythingin our path. Julian does thesame to the guards, forcingthem not to remember us aswe pass. Together, we makean unbeatable team, and it’snot long before we stand atthetopof thedungeonstairs.TherewillbeSentinelsdownthere, toomany for Julian totakecareofonhisown.

“Speak not a word,”Julian hisses to Lucas, who

nodsinunderstanding.Now it’smy turn to lead

us. I expect to be afraid, butthedimlightandthelatehourfeel familiar. This iswhere Ibelong, sneaking and lyingandstealing.

“Who is it? State yourname and business!” one oftheSentinelsshoutsupatus.I recognize her voice—Gliacon, the shiver whotorturedFarley.PerhapsIcan

convince Julian to sing heroffacliff.

I draw myself up to myfull height, though it’s myvoice and tone that mattermost. “My name is LadyMareena Titanos, betrothedoftheprinceMaven,”Isnap,moving down the steps withas much grace as I can. Myvoice is cold and sharp,mirroring Elara’s andEvangeline’s. I have strength

andpower too. “And I don’tshare my business withSentinels.”

At the sight of me, thefour Sentinels exchangeglances, questioning oneanother. One, a large manwithpigeyes,evenlooksmeup and down in a rudemanner. Behind the bars,Kilorn and Walsh jump toattention. Farley doesn’tmove from her corner, arms

curled around her knees. ForasecondIthinkshemightbesleeping,untilshemovesandherblueeyesreflectthelight.

“I need to know, mylady,”Gliaconsays,soundingapologetic.ShenodstoJulianand Lucas, who follow medown. “Goes for you two aswell.”

“I would like a privateaudience with these”—Ithrow as much disgust into

my voice as I can; it’s nothard, with the pig-eyedSentinel standing so close—“creatures. We havequestions that must beanswered and wrongs torepay.Don’twe,Julian?”

Juliansneers,puttingonagood show. “It’ll be easy tomakethemsing.”

“Not possible, m’lady,”Pig-Eyessnorts.Hisaccentishard and rough, fromHarbor

Bay. “Our orders are to stayrighthere,allnight.Wemovefornoone.”

Once, a boy in the Stiltscalled me a rotten flirt forcharming him out of a goodpair of boots. “Youunderstandmyposition,don’tyou? I will be a princesssoon, and the favor of aprincess is a very valuablething. Besides, the Red ratsmust be taught a lesson. A

painfulone.”Pig-Eyes blinks

sluggishly at me, thinking itover. Julian hovers at myshoulder, ready with hissweet words if I need them.Two heartbeats pass beforePig-Eyesnods,waving to theothers.“Wecangiveyoufiveminutes.”

My face hurts fromsmilingsowidely,butIdon’tcare. “Thank you somuch. I

aminyourdebt,allofyou.”They tromp away in a

single file, their bootsscuffing. As soon as theyreachthetoplanding,Iallowmyself tohope.Fiveminuteswillbemorethanenough.

Kilorn almost jumps atthe bars, eager to be free ofhis cell, and Walsh pullsFarleytoherfeet.ButIdon’tmoveatall. Idon’t intend tofreethem,notyet.

“Mare—,” Kilornwhispers, puzzled at myhesitation, but I silence himwithalook.

“The bomb.” Smoke andfire cloud my thoughts,bringing me back to themoment the ballroomexploded.“Tellmeabout thebomb.”

Iexpect themtofalloverthemselves in apologies, tobeg my forgiveness, but

instead, the three exchangeblank looks. Farley leansagainst the bars, her eyes onfire.

“I don’t know anythingaboutthat,”shehisses,barelyaudible. “I never authorizedsuchathing.Itwassupposedto be organized,with specialtargets. We do not kill atrandom,withoutpurpose.”

“The capital, the otherbombings—?”

“You know thosebuildingswereempty.Noonediedthere,notbecauseofus,”she says evenly. “I swear toyou, Mare, this was not ourdoing.”

“Doyoureallythinkwe’dtry to blow up our greatesthope?” Kilorn adds. I don’tneedtoasktoknowhemeansme.

Finally, I nod over myshouldertoJulian.

“Open the cell. Quietly,”Julianmurmurs,hishandsonLucas’sface.

The magnetron complies,forcing thebars into anopenO wide enough to stepthrough. Walsh comes outfirst, her eyes wide inamazement. Kilorn is next,helpingFarleyfitthroughthebars. Her arm still dangleshelplessly—thehealermissedaspot.

I gesture to thewall, andthey move soundlessly, miceonstone.Walsh’seyes touchon Tristan’s body, stilllifeless in the cell, but shestaysputbesideFarley.JulianshovesLucasinnext to thembeforetakinghisspotnext tothe foot of the stairs, acrossfromthefreedprisoners.

I take the other side,pressing myself in next toKilorn. Even though he’s

spent the night in the cells,with a dead body forcompany, he still smells likehome.

“I knewyou’d come,”hewhispers inmy ear. “I knewit.”

But there’s no time forpleasantries or celebrations.Notuntilthey’reawaysafely.

Across the open gap ofstairwell, Julian nods at me.He’sready.

“Sentinel Gliacon, may Ihaveaword?”Ishoutup thestairs, laying the bait for ournext trap.The shuffle of feettellsmeshe’stakenit.

“Whatisit,mylady?”When she reaches the

floor, her eyes fly straight tothe open cell and she gaspsbehind her mask. But Julianis too quick, even for aSentinel.

“You went for a walk.

You returned to find this.You do not remember us.Calldownoneoftheothers,”he murmurs, his voice aterriblesong.

“Sentinel Tyros, you areneeded,”shesaysflatly.

“Nowyouwillsleep.”She drops almost before

the last word leaves his lips,butJuliancatchesheraroundthemiddleandlayshergentlydown behind him. Kilorn

exhalesinsurprise,impressedbyJulian,whoallowshimselfasmall,pleasedsmile.

Tyros comes down thestairs next, confused, buteager to serve. Julian does itagain, singinghisorders in afew whispered seconds. Ididn’t expect Sentinels to besostupid,but itmakessense.They’re trained fromchildhood in the art ofcombat;logicandintelligence

arenottheirhighestpriorities.Butthelasttwo,Pig-Eyes

and the healer, are notcomplete fools. When Tyroscalls out, ordering the skinhealer Sentinel to comedown, they mutter to eachother.

“About finished, LadyTitanos?” Pig-Eyes calls, hisvoicewary.

Thinking quickly, I shoutback to them. “Yes, we’re

finished. Your companionshavereturnedtotheirposts,Iwant tomake sureyoudoaswell.”

“Oh, have they? Is thatright,Tyros?”

With blinding speed,JuliankneelsoverthefaintedTyros.Heprieshiseyesopen,holding the lids.“Sayyou’vereturnedtoyourpost.Saytheladyhasfinished.”

“Returned to my post,”

Tyros drones. Hopefully thelongstairwellandstonewallswill distort his voice. “Theladyhasfinished.”

Pig-Eyes grunts tohimself.“Verywell.”

Theirbootsstampagainstthe steps, both coming downtogether. Two. Julian cannothandle two alone. I feelKilorn tense at my back, hisfist clenching as he preparesforanything.WithonehandI

push him back against thewall, while the other growswhitewithsparks.

The footsteps stop, justbeyond the opening. I can’tsee them and neither canJulian, but Pig-Eyes breatheslikeadog.Thehealeristhereas well, waiting just beyondourreach.Intotalsilence,it’shardnottoheartheclickofagun.

Julian’s eyes widen, but

he stands firm, one handclosing around his stolenweapon.Idon’tevenwanttobreathe, knowing the edgewe’re all standing on. Thewalls seem to shrink, boxingusintoastonecoffinwithnoescape.

I feel very calm when Islideoutinfrontofthesteps,mysparkinghandbehindmyback. I expect to feel bulletsat any minute, but the pain

never comes. They won’tshoot me, not until I givethemagoodreason.

“Is there some problem,Sentinels?” I sneer, quirkingan eyebrow like I’ve seenEvangeline do a hundredtimes. Slowly, I take a stepup,bringing thepair of themintoview.Theystandsidebyside, fingers itching on twintriggers. “I’d prefer it if youwouldn’t point your guns at

me.”Pig-Eyes glares at me

outright, but it does nothingto faze me. You are a lady.Act like it. Act for your life.“Where’syourfriend?”

“Oh, he’s coming along.One of the prisoners has amouth on her. She neededsomeextraattention.”Theliecomes so easily. Practicereallydoesmakeperfect.

Grinning, Pig-Eyes

lowers his gun a bit. “Thescarred bitch? Had to showher the back of my handmyself.”Hechuckles.Ilaughwith him and dream aboutwhatlightningcoulddotohisfleshy,paleeyes.

AsImovecloser,theskinhealer puts one hand on themetalrail,blockingmyway.Ido the same. It feels cold inmy hand, and solid. Easydoesit, I tellmyself,pushing

just enough energy into mysparks. Not enough to burn,not enough to scar, butenough to take care of themboth. It’s like threading aneedle,and foronce, I’m thesewingexpert.

Above me, the healerdoesn’t laughwithhisfriend.His eyes are bright silver,and,with themask and fierycloak, he looks like a demonfromanightmare.

“What’s behind yourback?” he hisses through themask.

I shrug, allowing myselfone more step. “Nothing,SentinelSkonos.”

The next words areragged.“Youlie.”

We react in the samesecond, blasting into action.The bullet hits me in thestomach, but my lightningblazes up the metal rail,

throughhis skin and into thehealer’s brain. Pig-Eyesshouts, firing his own gun.Thebullet digs into thewall,missing me by inches. But Idon’t miss him, lashing withthe ball of sparks behindmyback. They slide past me,both unconscious, theirmuscles twitching withshocks.

AndthenI’mfalling.I briefly wonder if the

stone floor will smash myskull. I suppose that’s easierthan bleeding to death.Instead,longarmscatchme.

“Mare, you’ll be fine,”Kilorn whispers. His handcoversmystomach, trying tostop the bleeding. His eyesaregreenasgrass.Theystandout in a world fading todarkness.“It’snothingatall.”

“Put those on,” Juliansnaps to the others. Farley

and Walsh rush past me topullonthefire-redcloaksandmasks.“Youtoo!”

He yanks Kilorn off me,almost throwing him acrosstheroominhishaste.

“Julian—,” I choke out,trying to grab him. I mustthankhim.

But he’s beyond myreach, kneeling over thehealer. He rips open theSentinel’s eyelids and sings,

orderinghimtowakeup.Thenext thing Iknow, thehealerstares down atme, his handsonmywound.Itonlytakesasecondbeforetheworldshiftsbacktonormal.Inthecorner,Kilorn breathes a sigh ofrelief and pulls a cloak overhishead.

“Her as well.” I point toFarley. Julian nods anddirectsthehealerovertoher.With an audible pop, her

shoulder snaps back intoplace.

“Muchobliged,”shesays,pulling the mask over herface.

Walsh stands over us all,her mask forgotten in herhand.She stares at the fallenSentinels, jaw agape. “Arethey dead?” she asks,whispering like a frightenedchild.

Julian looksupfromPig-

Eyes,finishedsingingtohim.“Hardly. This lot will beawake in a fewhours, and ifyou’re lucky, no one willknowyou’regoneuntilthen.”

“I can work with a fewhours.” Farley smacks atWalsh, snapping her back toreality. “Get your head onstraight, girl,we’ve got a lotofrunningtodotonight.”

Itdoesn’ttakelongtoslipthem through the last few

passages. Even so, my feargrows with each passingheartbeat, until we findourselves in the middle ofCal’s garage. The slack-jawed Lucas tears a hole inthe metal door like he’sripping paper, revealing thenightbeyond.

Walsh hugs me, takingmebysurprise.“Idon’tknowhow,” she mutters, “but Ihope you become queen one

day. Imaginewhatyoucoulddothen?TheRedqueen.”

I have to smile at theimpossible thought. “Go,beforeyournonsenserubsoffonme.”

Farley isn’t one for hugs,but she does pat me on theshoulder. “We’ll meet again,andsoon.”

“Notlikethis,Ihope.”Herfacesplitsintoarare,

toothy smile. Despite the

scar, I realize she’s verypretty.

“Not like this,” sheechoes, before slipping outintothenightwithWalsh.

“IknowIcan’taskyoutocome with me,” Kilornmutters, moving to followthem.He stares at his hands,examiningscarsIknowbetterthan my own mind. Look atme,youidiot.

Sighing,Iforcemyself to

shove him toward freedom.“The cause needs me here.Youneedmeheretoo.”

“What I need andwhat Iwant are two very differentthings.”

I try to laugh, but I can’tfindthestrength.

“This is not our end,Mare,” Kilorn murmurs,embracing me. He laughs tohimself,thenoisevibratinginhis chest. “Red queen.Has a

niceringtoit.”“Geton,youfool.”Never

haveIsmiledsobrightlyandstillfeltsosad.

He spares me one lastglance and nods to Julian,before stepping out into thedarkness. The metal knitsback together behind him,blocking my friends fromsight.Where they’re going, Idon’twanttoknow.

Julian has to pull me

away, but he doesn’t scoldme for my long good-bye. Ithink he’s more preoccupiedwithLucas,who,inhisdazedstate,hasbeguntodrool.

TWENTY-TWO

That night I dream of mybrotherShadecomingtovisitmeinthedarkness.Hesmellslike gunpowder. But when Iblink, he disappears and mymind screamswhat I alreadyknow.Shadeisdead.

When morning comes, aseries of shuffles and slamsmakesmebolt awake, sitting

upinmybed.IexpecttoseeSentinels, Cal, or amurderousPtolemus ready torip me apart for what I’vedone, but it’s just the maidsbustling in my closet. Theylookmore harried than usualand pull down my clotheswithabandon.

“What’sgoingon?”In the closet, the girls

freeze. They bow, hands fullof silk and linen. As I come

closer, I realize they’restandingovera setof leathertrunks. “Are we goingsomewhere?”

“Orders, my lady,” onesays, her eyes lowered. “Weonlyknowwhatwe’retold.”

“Ofcourse.Well,I’mjustgoing to get dressed then.” Ireach for the nearest outfit,intendingtodosomethingformyself for once, but themaidsbeatmetoit.

Five minutes later, theyhave me painted and ready,dressed in odd leather pantsandaflouncyshirt. I’dmuchprefer my training suit overeverything else, but it’sapparently not “proper” towear the thing outside ofsessions.

“Lucas?” I ask theemptyhallway, half expecting himtopopoutfromanalcove.

But Lucas is nowhere to

be found, and I head off toProtocol, expecting him tocross my path. When hedoesn’t, a trill of fear ripplesthroughme.Julianmadehimforget last night, but maybesomething slipped throughthecracks.Maybehe’sbeingquestioned, punished, for thenight he can’t remember andwhatweforcedhimtodo.

But I’m not alone forlong. Maven steps into my

path, his lips quirked into anamusedsmile.

“You’re up early.” Thenheleansin,speakinginalowwhisper. “Especially forhavingsuchalatenight.”

“I don’t know what youmean.” I try for an innocenttone.

“The prisoners are gone.All three of them,disappearedintothinair.”

I put a hand tomy heart,

letting myself look shockedfor the cameras. “By mycolors! A few Reds, escapedfrom us? That seemsimpossible.”

“It does indeed.” Thoughthe smile remains, his eyesdarken slightly. “Of course,that brings everything intoquestion.Thepoweroutages,the failing security system,not to mention a troop ofSentinels with blank spots

across their memories.” Hestarespointedlyatme.

I return his sharp glance,letting him see my unease.“Your mother . . .interrogatedthem.”

“Shedid.”“And will she be talking

to”—Ichoosemywordsverycarefully—“anyone elseregarding the escape?Officers,guards—?”

Maven shakes his head.

“Whoeverdidthisdiditwell.I helped her with thequestioning and directed herto anyone of suspicion.”Directed.Directedawayfromme. I breathe a small sigh ofrelief and squeeze his arm,thanking him for hisprotection. “Besides,wemayneverfindwhodidit.Peoplehave been fleeing since lastnight. They think the Hall isnolongersafe.”

“After last night, they’reprobablyright.”Islipmyarminto his, drawing him closer.“What did yourmother learnofthebomb?”

His voice drops to awhisper. “There was nobomb.” What? “It was anexplosion, but it was also anaccident.Abulletpuncturedagas line in the floor, andwhenCal’sfirehitit...”Hetrailsoff,lettinghishandsdo

the talking. “ItwasMother’sidea to use that to our, ah,advantage.”

We don’t kill withoutpurpose. “She’s turning theGuardintomonsters.”

Henodsgravely.“Noonewillwanttostandwiththem.NotevenReds.”

My blood seems to boil.More lies. She’s beating uswithout firing a shot ordrawing a blade. Words are

all she needs. And now I’mbeing sent deeper into herworld,toArcheon.

Youwon’tseeyourfamilyagain. Gisa will grow, untilyou don’t recognize heranymore. Bree and Tramywill marry, have children,and forget you. Dad will dieslowly, suffocated by hiswounds,andwhenhe’sgone,Momwillslipawaytoo.

Maven lets me think, his

eyesthoughtfulashewatchestheemotions rise inmy face.He always lets me think.Sometimes his silence isbetter than anyone else’swords.

“How long do we havelefthere?”

“We go this afternoon.Most of the court is leavingbefore that, but we have totake the boat. Keep sometraditioninallthismadness.”

WhenIwasa littlegirl, Iused to sit onmy porch andwatch the pretty boats pass,heading downriver to thecapital.Shadewouldlaughatme for wanting to catch aglimpse of the king. I didn’trealizethenitwasjustpartofthe pageant, another displayjust like the arena fights, toshow exactly how low wewere in the grand scheme oftheworld.Now I’mgoing to

be part of it again, this timestandingontheotherside.

“Atleastyou’llgettoseeyourhomeagain,ifonlyforalittle while,” he adds, tryingto be gentle. Yes, Maven,that’s just what I want. Tostand and watch my homeandmyoldlifepassby.

Butthat’sthepriceImustpay. Freeing Kilorn and theothers means losing my lastfew days in the valley, and

it’s a trade I’m happy tomake.

We’re interrupted by aloud crash from a nearbypassage, the one leading toCal’s room. Maven reactsfirst, moving to the edge ofthehallbeforeIcan,likehe’strying to protect me fromsomething.

“Bad dreams, brother?”hecallsout,worriedbywhathesees.

Inresponse,Calstepsoutinto the hallway, his fistsclenched, like he’s trying tokeephisownhandsincheck.Gone is the bloodstaineduniform, replaced by whatlooks like Ptolemus’s armor,though Cal’s has a reddishtint.

I want to slap him, toclaw at him and scream forwhat he did to Farley andTristan and Kilorn and

Walsh. The sparks danceinside me, begging to beloosed.Butafterall,whatdidI expect? I know what he isand what he believes in—Redsarenotworthsaving.SoIspeakascivillyasIcan.

“Willyoubeleavingwithyourlegion?”Iknowheisn’t,judging by the livid anger inhis eyes. Once, I feared hewouldgo,andnowIwishhewould.Ican’tbelieveIcared

about saving him. I can’tbelieve that was ever athoughtinmyhead.

Calheavesabreath.“TheShadow Legion isn’t goinganywhere. Father will notallow it. Not now. It’s toodangerous, and I’m toovaluable.”

“You know he’s right.”Maven puts a hand on hisbrother’s shoulder, trying tocalm him. I remember

watching Cal do the samething toMaven, but now thecrown is on a different head.“You are the heir. He can’taffordtoloseyoutoo.”

“I’masoldier,”Calspits,shrugging away from hisbrother’s touch. “I can’t justsit byand letothers fight forme.Iwon’tdoit.”

He sounds like a childwhining for a toy—he mustenjoy killing. It makes me

sick.Idon’tspeak,lettingthediplomatic Maven talk forme.Healwaysknowswhattosay.

“Find another cause.Build another cycle, doubleyour training,drillyourmen,prepareyourselfforwhenthedanger passes. Cal, you cando a thousand other things,and none of them end withyoubeingkilledinsomekindof ambush!” he says, glaring

up at his brother. Then hesmirks, trying to lighten themood. “You never change,Cal.Youjustcan’tsitstill.”

After a moment of harshsilence, Cal breaks into aweak smile. “Never.” Hiseyes flick tome, but Iwon’tgetcaughtinhisbronzestare,notagain.

I turn my head,pretending to examine apainting on the wall. “Nice

armor,” I sneer. “It will gowellwithyourcollection.”

He looks stung, evenconfused, but quicklyrecovers. His smile is gonenow, replaced by narrowedeyes and a clenched jaw.Hetaps at his armor; it soundslike claws on stone. “Thiswas a gift from Ptolemus. Iseem to share a commoncause with my betrothed’sbrother.”My betrothed. Like

that’s supposed to make mejealousorsomething.

Maven eyes the armorwarily.“Whatdoyoumean?”

“Ptolemus commands theofficers in the capital.Together with me and mylegion, we might be able todo something of use, evenwithinthecity.”

Cold fear steals into myheart again, brushing awaywhateverhopeandhappiness

last night’s success broughtme. “And what is that,exactly?” I hear myselfbreathe.

“I’m a good hunter.He’sa good killer.” Cal takes astepbackward,walkingawayfromus.

I can feel him slippingdown not just the hall but adark and twisted path. Itmakes me afraid for the boywhotaughtmehowtodance.

No,notforhim.Ofhim.Andthat is worse than all myotherterrorsandnightmares.

“Between the two of us,we’ll root out the ScarletGuard. We’ll end thisrebelliononceandforall.”

There’s no schedule fortoday,aseveryoneistoobusyleaving to teach or train.Fleeing might be a betterword,becausethat’scertainly

what this looks like frommyvantage point in the entrancehall. I used to think theSilvers were untouchablegods who were neverthreatened, never scared.Now I know the opposite istrue.They’vespentsolongatthe top, protected andisolated, that they’veforgotten they can fall. Theirstrength has become theirweakness.

Once, I was afraid ofthese walls, frightened bysuch beauty. But I see thecracks now. It’s like the dayof the bombing, when Irealized Silvers were notinvincible. Then it was anexplosion—nowafewbulletshave shattered diamondglass,revealing fear and paranoiabeneath. Silvers fleeing fromReds—lions running frommice. The king and queen

oppose each other, the courthas their own alliances, andCal—the perfect prince, thegood soldier—is a torturous,terrible enemy. Anyone canbetrayanyone.

Cal and Maven bideveryone good-bye, doingtheir duty despite theorganizedchaos.Theairshipswait not far off, the whir oftheir engines audible eveninside.Iwanttoseethegreat

machines up close, butmoving would mean bravingthe crowd, and I can’tstomach the stares of thegrief-stricken. All together,twelve died last night, but Irefuse to learn their names. Ican’thave themweighingonme,notwhenIneedmywitsmorethanever.

When I can’t watch anylonger, my feet take mewhere they will, wandering

through now familiarpassages.ChamberscloseasIpass, being shut up for theseason,untilthecourtreturns.Iwon’t,Iknow.Servantspullwhite sheets over thefurniture and paintings andstatues, until thewholeplacelookshauntedbyghosts.

It’snot longbeforeIfindmyself standing in thedoorway of Julian’s oldclassroom, and the sight

shocks me. The stacks ofbooks, the desk, even themaps are gone. The roomlookslargerbutfeelssmaller.Itonceheldwholeworldsbutnow holds only dust andcrumpled paper. My eyeslinger on the wall where thehugemapused tobe.Once Icouldn’tunderstand it;now Iremember it like an oldfriend.

Norta, the Lakelands,

Piedmont, Prairie, Tiraxes,Montfort, Ciron, and all thedisputed lands in between.Other countries, otherpeoples, all torn along thelines of blood just like us. Ifwechange,willthey?Orwilltheytrytodestroyustoo?

“I hope you’ll rememberyour lessons.” Julian’s voicedrawsmeoutofmythoughts,back to the empty room. Hestands behind me, following

my gaze to the map wall.“I’m sorry I couldn’t teachyoumore.”

“We’ll have plenty oftimeforLessonsinArcheon.”

His smile is bittersweetandalmostpainfultolookat.WithajoltIrealizeIcanfeelcameras watching us for theveryfirsttime.“Julian?”

“ThearchivistsinDelphiehave offered me a positionrestoringsomeoldtexts.”The

lie is as plain as the nose onhisface.“Seemsthey’vebeendigging through the Washand came on some storagebunkers. Mountains to gothrough,apparently.”

“You’ll like that verymuch.” My voice catches inmy throat. You knew hewould have to leave. Youforcedhimintothislastnight,when you put his life indanger for Kilorn’s. “Will

youvisit,whenyoucan?”“Yes,ofcourse.”Another

lie. Elara will figure out hisrole soon enough, and thenhe’ll be on the run. It onlymakes sense to get a headstart. “I’ve gotten yousomething.”

I’dratherhaveJulianthanany gift, but I try to lookthankfulanyways.“Isitgoodadvice?”

He shakes his head,

smiling. “You’ll see whenyou get to the capital.” Thenhe stretches out his arms,beckoning to me. “I have togo,sosendmeoffproperly.”

Hugging him is likehugging my father or thebrothersI’llneverseeagain.Idon’twant to lethimgo,butthe danger is too great forhimtostayandwebothknowit.

“Thank you, Mare,” he

whispers in my ear. “Youremindmesomuchofher.”Idon’t need to ask to knowhe’s talking about Coriane,about the sister he lost solongago.“I’llmissyou,littlelightninggirl.”

Right now, the nicknamedoesn’tsoundsobad.

I don’t have the strength tomarvel at the boat, driventhrough thewater by electric

engines.Black,silver,andredflags flap from every pole,marking this as the king’sship.WhenIwasagirl,Iuseto wonder why the king laidclaimtoourcolor.Itwasjustsobeneathhim.NowIrealizethe flags are red like hisflame, like the destruction—andthepeople—hecontrols.

“The Sentinels from lastnight have been reassigned,”Maven mutters as we walk

alongadeck.Reassignedisjustafancy

word for punished.Remembering Pig-Eyes andthewayhelookedatme,I’mnot sorry at all. “Where didtheygo?”

“The front, of course.They’ll be attached to somerabble group, to captaininjured, incapable, or bad-tempered soldiers. Those areusuallythefirsttobesentina

trenchpush.”Bytheshadowsbehind his eyes, I can tellMavenknowsthisfirsthand.

“Thefirsttodie.”Henodssolemnly.“And Lucas? I haven’t

seenhimsinceyesterday—”“He’s all right. Traveling

with House Samos,regrouping with family. Theshooting has everyone ontheir heels, even the HighHouses.”

Reliefwashesoverme,aswellassadness.ImissLucasalready,butit’sgoodtoknowhe’ssafeandfarfromElara’sprying.

Maven bites his lip,lookingsubdued.“Butnotforlong.Answersarecoming.”

“Whatdoyoumean?”“They found blood down

inthecells.Redblood.”My gunshot wound is

gone, but thememory of the

painhasnotfaded.“So?”“So whichever friend of

yours had the misfortune tobewoundedwon’tbeasecretmuchlonger,ifthebloodbasedoesitsjob.”

“Bloodbase?”“Theblooddatabase.Any

Red born within a hundredmiles of civilization getssampled at birth. Started outas a project to understandexactlywhatthedifferenceis

between us, but it ended upjust another way to put acollar on your people. In thebigger cities, Reds don’t useID cards but blood tags.They’re sampled at everygate, coming and going.Trackedlikeanimals.”

Briefly, I thinkof theolddocuments the king threw atme that day in the throneroom. My name, myphotograph, and a smear of

bloodwereinthere.My blood. They have my

blood.“And they—they can

figure out whose blood it is,justlikethat?”

“It takes some time, aweek or so, but yes, that’show it’s supposed to work.”His eyes fall to my shakinghands, and he covers themwith his own, lettingwarmthbleed into my suddenly cold

skin.“Mare?”“He shotme,” I whisper.

“The Sentinel shot me. It’smybloodtheyfound.”

And then his hands arejustascoldasmine.

For all his clever ideas,Maven has nothing to say tothis.Hejuststares,hisbreathcomingintiny,scaredpuffs.Iknow the look on his face; IweariteverytimeI’mforcedtosaygood-byetosomeone.

“It’s too bad we didn’tstay longer,” I murmur,looking out at the river. “Iwouldhavelikedtodieclosetohome.”

Another breeze sends acurtainofmyhair acrossmyface, but Maven brushes itawayandpullsmeclosewithstartlingferocity.

Oh.His kiss is not at all like

his brother’s.Maven ismore

desperate, surprising himselfasmuchasme.HeknowsI’msinkingfast,astonedroppingthrough the river. And hewantstodrownwithme.

“I will fix this,” hemurmurs against my lips. Ihave never seen his eyes sobrightandsharp.“Iwon’t letthemhurt you.Youhavemyword.”

Part of me wants tobelieve him. “Maven, you

can’tfixeverything.”“You’reright,Ican’t,”he

replies, an edge to his voice.“ButIcanconvincesomeonewithmorepowerthanme.”

“Who?”When the temperature

around us rises,Maven pullsback, his jaw tense andclenched. The way his eyesflash, I half expect him toattack whoever interruptedus. I don’t turn around,

mostly because I can’t feelmy limbs. I’ve gone numb,though my lips still tinglewith memory. What thismeans, I don’t know.What Ifeel, I can’t begin tounderstand.

“Thequeen requestsyourpresence on the viewingdeck.”Cal’svoicegrindslikestone. He sounds almostangry, but his bronze eyeslook sad, defeated even.

“PassingtheStilts,Mare.”Yes, the shoreline is

already familiar to me. Iknow that mangled tree, thatstretchofbank, and the echoof saws and falling trees isunmistakable. This is home.With great pain, I forcemyself away from the rail toface Cal, who seems to behaving a silent conversationwithhisbrother.

“Thank you, Cal,” I

murmur, still trying toprocessMaven’s kiss and, ofcourse, my own impendingdoom.

Cal walks away, hisusually straight back bowed.Eachfootfallsendsapangofguilt throughme,makingmeremember our dance and ourown kiss. I hurt everyone,especiallymyself.

Maven stares after hisfleeingbrother. “Hedoesnot

liketolose.And”—helowershisvoice,nowsoclosetomeI can see the tiny flecks ofsilver in his eyes—“neitherdoI.Iwon’tloseyou,Mare.Iwon’t.”

“You’llneverloseme.”Another lie, and we both

knowit.

The viewing deck dominatesthefrontoftheship,enclosedby glass stretching from side

to side. Brown shapes takeform on the riverbank, andthe old hill with the arenaappears out of the trees.We’re too far from the bankto see anyone properly, but Iknowmyhouseinaninstant.The old flag still flutters onthe porch, still embroideredwiththreeredstars.Onehasablack stripe through it, inhonor of Shade. Shade wasexecuted.You’re supposed to

rip a star off after that. Butthey didn’t. They held on tohim in their own littlerebellion.

Iwant to pointmy homeout to Maven, to tell himabout the village. I’ve seenhis life, and now I want toshow him mine. But theviewing deck is silent, all ofusstaringatthevillageaswecome closer and closer. Thevillagers don’t care about

you, I want to scream.Onlyfoolswillstoptowatch.Onlythefoolswillwasteamomentonyou.

As theboatcontinueson,I begin to think the wholevillage might be made offools. All two thousand ofthem seem crowded onto thebank.Somestandankle-deepin the river. From thisdistance, they all look thesame. Fading hair and worn

clothes, blotchy skinned,tired,hungry—allthethingsIusedtobe.

Andangry.Evenfromtheboat, I can feel their anger.They don’t cheer or call outournames.Noonewaves.Nooneevensmiles.

“What is this?” Ibreathe,expectingnoonetoanswer.

But the queen does, withgreat relish. “Such a waste,paradingdowntheriverwhen

no one will watch. It seemswe’vefixedthat.”

Somethingtellsmethisisanothermandatoryevent,likethefights,likethebroadcasts.Officerstoresickeldersfromtheir beds and exhaustedworkers from the floor,forcingthemtowatchus.

Awhipcrackssomewhereonthebank,followedcloselyby a woman’s scream. “Stayin line!” echoes over the

crowd. Their eyes neverfalter, staring straight ahead,so still that I can’t even seewhere the disruption was.Whathappenedtomakethemso lenient?Whathasalreadybeendone?

TearsprickatmyeyesasI watch. There are morecracksandafewbabieswail,but no one on the bankprotests. Suddenly I’m at theedge of the deck,wanting to

burst through the glass witheveryinchofmyself.

“Going somewhere,Mareena?” Elara purrs fromher place next to the king.She sips placidly at a drink,surveyingmeovertherimofherglass.

“Why are you doingthis?”

Arms crossed over hermagnificent gown,Evangeline eyes me with a

sneer. “Why do you care?”But her words fall on deafears.

“They know whathappened at the Hall, theymight even agree with it, sothey need to see that wearen’t defeated,” Calmurmurs, his eyes on theriverbank.Hecan’tevenlookatme,thecoward.“Wearen’tevenbleeding.”

Another whip cracks and

I flinch, almost feeling thelash on my skin. “Did youorder them to be beaten aswell?”

He doesn’t rise to mychallenge, jaw firmlyclenched shut. But whenanother villager cries out,protesting against theofficers, he lets his eyesclose.

“Stand back, LadyTitanos.” The king’s voice

rumbleslikefarawaythunder,an order if there ever wasone. I can almost feel hissmugsmilewhenIstepaway,movingbacktoMaven.“Thisis a Red village, you knowthat better than us all. Theyharbor these terrorists, feedthem, protect them, becomethem.They are childrenwhohave done wrong. And theymustlearn.”

I open my mouth to

argue,butthequeenbaresherteeth.“Perhapsyouknowofafew who should be made anexample of?” she sayscalmly, gesturing to theshoreline.

The words die in mythroat, chased away by herthreat. “No, Your Majesty, Idon’t.”

“Then stand back and besilent.” Then she grins. “Foryour time to speak will

come.”Thisiswhattheyneedme

for.Amomentlikethis,whenthe scales could tip out oftheir favor. But I can’tprotest. I can only do as shecommands and watch as myhome fades out of sight.Forever.

The closer we get to thecapital,thelargerthevillagesbecome. Soon the landscape

fades from lumber andfarming communities toproper towns. They centeraround massive mills, withbrick homes and dormitoriesto house the Red laborers.Like the other villages, theirinhabitantsstandinthestreetsto watch us pass. Officersbark,whipscrack,andIneverget used to it. I flinch everytime.

Then the towns are

replacedby sprawlingestatesand mansions, palaces likethe Hall. Made of stone andglass and swirling marble,each one seems moremagnificent than the last.Theirlawnsslopetotheriver,decorated with greenwardengardens and beautifulfountains. The housesthemselveslookliketheworkof gods, each one a differentkind of beautiful. But the

windows are dark, the doorsclosed. Where the villagesand towns were full ofpeople, these seemdevoidoflife. Only the flags flyinghigh,oneovereachstructure,let me know someone livesthere at all. Blue for HouseOsanos, silver for Samos,brown for Rhambos, and soon.NowIknowthecolorsbyheart, putting faces to eachsilenthome. I even killed the

ownersofafew.“River Row,” Maven

explains. “The countryresidences, should a lord orladywishtoescapethecity.”

My gaze lingers on theIral home, a columnedwonder of black marble.Stone panthers guard theporch,snarlingupat thesky.Eventhestatuesputachillinme, making me rememberAra Iral and her pressing

questions.“There’snoonehere.”“The houses are empty

mostof theyear, andnoonewould dare leave the citynow, not with this Guardbusiness.” He offers me asmall, bitter smile. “Theywould rather hide behindtheir diamond walls and letmy brother do their fightingforthem.”

“If only no one had to

fightatall.”He shakes his head. “It

doesnogoodtodream.”We watch in silence as

River Row falls behind usandanotherforestrisesuponthe banks. The trees arestrange, very tall with blackbarkanddarkredleaves.Itisdeathly quiet, as no forestshouldbe.Notevenbirdsongbreaks the silence, andoverhead, the sky darkens,

but not from the waningafternoon light. Black cloudsgather, hovering over thetreeslikeathickblanket.

“And what’s this?” Evenmyvoicesoundsmuffled,andI’m suddenly glad for theglasscasingoverthedeck.Tomy surprise the others havegone, leaving us alone towatchthegloomsettle.

Maven glances at theforest,facepulledindistaste.

“Barrier trees.Theykeep thepollution from travelingfarther upriver. The Wellegreenwardens made themyearsago.”

Choppy brown wavesfoamagainsttheboat,leavinga film of black grime on thegleaming steel hull. Theworld takesona strange tint,likeI’mlookingthroughdirtyglass. The low-lying cloudsaren’tcloudsatallbutsmoke

pouring from a thousandchimneys, obscuring the sky.Gone are the trees and thegrass—this is a land of ashanddecay.

“Gray Town,” Mavenmurmurs.

Factoriesstretchoutasfaras I can see, dirty andmassive and humming withelectricity. It hits me like afist, almost knocking me offmy feet. My heart tries to

keep up with the unearthlypulseandIhave tositdown,feelingmybloodrace.

I thought my world waswrong, that my life wasunfair.ButIcouldneverevendream of a place like GrayTown.

Power stations glow inthe gloom, pulsing electricblueandsicklygreenintothespider-work of wires in theair. Transports piled high

with cargo move along theraised roads, shuttling goodsfrom one factory to another.Theyscreamatoneanotherina noisy mess of tangledtraffic, moving like sluggishblack blood in gray veins.Worst of all, little housessurround each factory in anorderedsquare,oneontopoftheother,withnarrowstreetsinbetween.Slums.

Beneath such a smoky

sky,Idoubttheworkerseversee daylight. They walkbetween the factories andtheir homes, flooding thestreets during a shift change.There are no officers, nocracking whips, no blankstares. No one is makingthemwatchuspass.Thekingdoesn’tneedtoshowoffhere,I realize. They are brokenfrombirth.

“These are the techies,” I

whisper hoarsely,remembering the name theSilvers so blithely tossaround. “They make thelights, thecameras, thevideoscreens—”

“Theguns,thebullets,thebombs, the ships, thetransports,” Maven adds.“They keep the powerrunning.Theykeepourwaterclean.Theydoeverythingforus.”

And they receive nothingbutsmokeinreturn.

“Whydon’ttheyleave?”He just shrugs. “This is

theonlylifetheyknow.Mosttechieswill never leave theirown alley. They can’t evenconscript.”

Can’t even conscript.Theirlivesaresoterriblethatthewarisabetteralternative,and they’renotevenallowedtogo.

Like everything else onthe river, the factories fadeaway, but the image stayswith me. I must not forgetthis, something tells me. Imustnotforgetthem.

Stars wait for us beyondanotherforestofbarriertrees,and beneath them: Archeon.AtfirstIdon’tseethecapitalat all,mistaking its lights forblazing stars. As we sailcloser and closer, my jaw

drops.A triple-layered bridge

runs across the wide river,linking the two cities oneither side. It’s thousands offeet long and thriving, alivewith light and electricity.There are shops and marketsquares, all built into theBridge itself a hundred feetabove the river. I can justpicture the Silvers up there,drinking and eating and

looking down on the worldfrom their place on high.Transports blaze along thelowesttieroftheBridge,theirheadlampslikeredandwhitecomets cutting through thenight.

Both ends of the Bridgearegated,andthecitysectorson either side are walled in.Ontheeastbank,greatmetaltowersstaboutofthegroundlikeswordstopiercethesky,

all crowned with gleaminggiant birds of prey. Moretransports and peoplepopulate the paved streetsthat climb up the hillyriverbanks, connecting thebuildings to the Bridge andtheoutergates.

The walls arediamondglass,likebackattheHall, but set with floodlitmetal towers and otherstructures. There are patrols

on the walls, but theiruniforms are not the flamingred of Sentinels or the starkblackofSecurity.Theywearuniforms of clouded silverand white, almost blendinginto the cityscape. They aresoldiers,andnotthekindwhodance with ladies. This is afortress.

Archeon was built toendurewar,notpeace.

On the western bank, I

recognize the Royal Courtand the Treasury Hall fromthe bombing footage. Bothare made from gleamingwhite marble and fullyrepaired, even though theywere attacked barely morethanamonthago.Itfeelslikea lifetime. They flankWhitefire Palace, a buildingevenIknowonsight.Myoldteacher used to say it wascarvedfromthehillsideitself,

a living piece of the whitestone. Flames made of goldand pearl flash atop thesurroundingwalls.

Itrytotakeitin,myeyesdartingbetweenbothendsoftheBridge,butmymind justcan’t fathom this place.Overhead, airships moveslowly through thenightsky,while airjets fly even higher,as fast as shooting stars. Ithought the Hall of the Sun

was a wonder; apparently Inever knew the meaning oftheword.

But I can’t find anythingbeautiful here, not when thesmoky, dark factories areonly a few miles back. Thecontrast between the SilvercityandtheRedslumsetsmyteeth on edge. This is theworld I’m trying to bringdown,theworldtryingtokillme and everything I care

about. Now I truly see whatI’m fightingagainst andhowdifficult, how impossible, itwillbetowin.I’veneverfeltsmaller than I do now, withthe great bridge loomingabove us. It looks ready toswallowmewhole.

But I have to try. If onlyfor Gray Town, for the oneswhohaveneverseenthesun.

TWENTY-THREE

Bythe time theboatdocksatthe western bank and we’rebackonland,nighthasfallen.At home, thismeant shuttingdownthepowerandgoingtosleep, but not in Archeon. Ifanything, the city seems tobrightenwhile the restof theworld goes dark. Fireworkscrackle overhead, raining

lightdownontheBridge,andatop Whitefire, a red-and-black flag rises. The king isbackonthisthrone.

Thankfully there are nomore pageants to sufferthrough; we are greeted byarmored transports to takeusup from the docks. To mydelight, Maven and I have atransport to ourselves, joinedby only two Sentinels. Hepoints out landmarks as we

pass, explaining what seemslike every statue and streetcorner.Heevenmentionshisfavoritebakery, thoughitsitsontheothersideoftheriver.

“The Bridge and EastArcheonare forcivilians, thecommon Silvers, thoughmany are richer than somenobles.”

“Common Silvers?” Ialmost have to laugh.“There’ssuchathing?”

Maven just shrugs. “Ofcourse. They’re merchants,businessmen, soldiers,officers, shop owners,politicians, land barons,artists, and intellectuals.Some marry into HighHouses,someriseabovetheirstation, but they don’t havenoble blood, and theirabilities aren’t as, well,powerful.”

Not everyone is special.

Lucas told me that once. Ididn’tknowhemeantSilverstoo.

“Meanwhile, WestArcheon is for the court ofthe king,” Maven continues.We pass a street lined withlovely stone houses andpruned, flowering trees. “Allthe High Houses keepresidenceshere,tobeclosetothe king and government. Infact,theentirecountrycanbe

controlled from this cliff, iftheneedshouldarise.”

That explains thelocation.Thewesternbankissharply sloped, with thepalace and the othergovernment buildings sittingat the crest of a hilloverlooking the Bridge.Another wall surrounds thehilltop,fencingintheheartofthecountry.Itrynottogawkwhen we pass through the

gate, revealing a tiled squarethe size of an arena. Mavencalls itCaesar’sSquare,afterthe first king of his dynasty.JulianmentionedKingCaesarbefore, but fleetingly; ourlessons never got muchfurther than the FirstDivide,when red and silver becamemuchmorethancolors.

WhitefirePalaceoccupiesthe southern side of theSquare, while the courts,

treasury, and administrativecenters take up the rest.There’s even a militarybarracks, judging by thetroops drilling in the walledyard.TheyareCal’sShadowLegion, who traveled aheadofustothecity.Acomforttothe nobles, Maven calledthem. Soldiers within thewalls,toprotectusifanotherattackshouldcome.

Despite the hour, the

Square bustles with activityas people rush toward asevere-looking structure nextto the barracks. Red-and-black flags, emblazonedwiththe sword symbol of thearmy,hangfromitscolumns.Icanjustseealittlestagesetup in front of the building,withapodiumsurroundedbybright spotlights and agrowingcrowd.

Suddenly the gaze of

cameras, heavier than I’mused to, lands on ourtransport, followingusas thelineofvehiclespassesbythestage. Luckily we keepdriving, moving through anarchwaytoasmallcourtyard,butthenwepulltoastop.

“What’s this?” Iwhisper,grabbing on toMaven. Untilnow, I’ve kept my fear incheck,butbetween the lightsand the cameras and the

crowd, my wall begins tocrumble.

Maven sighs heavily,more annoyed than anything.“Father must be giving aspeech. Just some saberrattling to keep the masseshappy. The people lovenothing more than a leaderpromisingvictory.”

Maven steps out, pullingme along with him. Despitemymakeupandmyclothes,I

feel suddenlyverybare.Thisis for a broadcast.Thousands, millions, will seethis.

“Don’t worry, we justhavetostandandlookstern,”hemuttersinmyear.

“I think Cal has thatcovered.” I nod towhere theprincebroods,stillattachedatthehiptoEvangeline.

Maven snickers tohimself. “He thinks speeches

areawasteoftime.Callikesaction,notwords.”

Thatmakestwoofus,butI don’twant to admit I haveanything in common withMaven’s older brother.Maybeonce,Ithoughtso,butnotnow.Noteveragain.

A bustling secretarybeckons us. His clothes areblue and gray, the colors ofHouseMacanthos.Maybe heknew the colonel; maybe he

was her brother, her cousin.Don’t,Mare. This is the lastplace to lose your nerve. Hedoesn’t spare a glance at uswhen we fall into place,standing behind Cal andEvangeline,withthekingandqueen at the head. Strangely,Evangeline is not her usualcoolself;Icanseeherhandsshaking. She’s afraid. Shewanted the spotlight, shewantedtobeCal’sbride,and

yet she’s scared of it. Howcanthatbe?

And then we’re moving,walking into a building withtoo many Sentinels andattendants to count. Inside,the structure is built forfunction, with maps andoffices and council roomsinsteadofpaintingsorsalons.Peopleingrayuniformsbusythemselvesinthehall,thoughtheystoptoletuspass.Most

of thedoorsareclosed,but Imanage to catch a glimpseinside a few. Officers andsoldierslookdownatmapsofthe war front, arguing overthe placement of legions.Another room spilling withthunderous energy seems toholdahundredvideoscreens,each one operated by asoldier in battle uniform.They speak into headsets,barking orders to faraway

peopleandplaces.Thewordsdiffer,but themeaning is thesame.

“Holdtheline.”Cal lingers before the

door to the video room,craning his neck to get abetter look, but it suddenlyslams in his face.He bristlesbut doesn’t protest, fallingback into line withEvangeline. She mutters tohimquietly,butheshakesher

off,tomydelight.Butmysmilefadesaswe

step back out into blindinglightsonthefrontstepsofthestructure. A bronze plaquenext to the door reads WarCommand. This place is theheart of the military—everysoldier, every army, everyguniscontrolledfromwithin.My stomach rolls at thepower here, but I can’t losemy nerve, not in front of so

many. Cameras flash,blinding my sight. When Iflinch, I hear a voice insidemyhead.

The secretary presses apaperinmyhand.Oneglanceat it, and I almost scream.Now I know what I wassavedfor.

Earn your keep, Elara’svoice whispers in my head.She glances at me fromMaven’sotherside,doingher

bestnottogrin.Maven follows her

wretched gaze and notes thepaper in my shaking hand.Slowly, he winds his fingersaround my own, as if hecould pour his strength intome.Iwantnothingmorethantoripthepaperintwo,butheholdsmesteady.

“You must,” is all hesays,whisperingsolowIcanbarelyhearhim.“Youmust.”

“My heart grieves for thelives lost,butknow that theywere not lost in vain. Theirblood will fuel our resolveanddriveus toovercomethedifficulties ahead. We are anation at war, we have beenfor nearly a century, and weare not unaccustomed toobstacles in the path tovictory.Thesepeoplewillbefound, these people will bepunished, and this disease

they call rebellionwill nevertakeholdinmycountry.”

The video screen in mynew bedroom is about asuseful as a bottomless boat,playing the king’s speechfrom last night in anauseating loop. By now Ican recite the whole thingword for word, but I can’tstop watching. Because Iknowwhocomesnext.

My face looks strangeon

thescreen,toopale,toocold.I still can’t believe I kept astraight facewhile I read thewords.WhenIstepupto thepodium, taking the king’splace,Idon’teventremble.

“I was raised by Reds. IbelievedIwasone.AndIsawfirsthand the grace of HisMajesty the king, the justwaysofourSilver lords,andthe great privilege they gaveus.Therighttowork,toserve

our country, to live and livewell.”On-screen,Mavenputsa hand on my arm. He nodsalongwithmyspeech. “NowI know I am Silver born, alady of House Titanos, andoneday, aprincessofNorta.Myeyeshavebeenopened.Aworld I never dreamed ofexists, and it is invincible. Itis merciful. And theseterrorists, murderers of themost evil kind, are trying to

destroy the bedrock of ournation. This we cannotallow.”

Inthesafetyofmyroom,I heave a ragged breath. Theworstiscoming.

“In his wisdom, KingTiberias has drafted theMeasures, to root out thissickness of rebellion, and toprotect the good citizens ofour nation. They are asfollows:Asoftoday,asunset

curfew is in effect for allReds. Security will bedoubled in everyRed villageand town.New outpostswillbe built on the roads andmanned to full capacity. AllRed crimes, includingbreaking of the curfew, willbe punished by execution.And”—at this, my voicefalters for the first time—“conscriptionagehasbeenlowered,totheageoffifteen.

Anyone who providesinformation leading tocapture of Scarlet Guardoperatives or the preventionof ScarletGuard actionswillbe awarded conscriptionwaivers, releasing up to fivemembers of the same familyfrommilitaryservice.”

It’s a brilliant, andterrible,maneuver. Redswillteareachotherapartforsuchwaivers.

“The Measures are to beupheld at all costs until thedisease known as the ScarletGuard is destroyed.” I stareintomy own eyes on-screen,watching as I stop myselffrom choking onmy speech.Myeyesarewide,hopingmypeopleknowwhat I’mtryingto say.Words can lie.“Longlivetheking.”

Angerripplesthroughme,and the screen shorts out,

replacing my face with ablackvoid.ButIcanstillseeeach new order in mymind.More officers patrolling,morebodieshangingfromthegallows, and more mothersweeping for their stolenchildren.Wekilledadozenoftheirs, and they kill athousandof ours. Part ofmeknows theseblowswilldrivesomeReds to the side of theGuard, but many more will

side with the king. For theirlives, for their children’slives, theywill give upwhatlittlefreedomtheyhadleft.

I thought being theirpuppet would be easycompared to everything else.Iwassowrong.ButIcannotlet them break me, not now.Notevenwhenmyowndoomlingersonthehorizon.Imustdo everything I can untilmyblood is matched and my

gameisover.Untiltheydragmeawayandkillme.

Atleastmywindowfacesthe river, looking southtoward the sea.When I stareat thewater, Ican ignoremyfading future. My eyes trailfrom the swiftly movingcurrenttothedarksmudgeonthehorizon.Whiletherestofthe sky is clear, dark cloudshover in the south, nevermoving from the forbidden

landat thecoast.The RuinedCity. Radiation and fireconsumed the city once andnever let it go. Now it’snothing but a black ghostsitting just out of reach, arelicoftheoldworld.

Part of me wishes Lucaswould rap on my door andhurry me along to a newschedule, but he has notreturned yet. I suppose he’sbetter offwithoutme risking

hislife.Julian’s gift sits against

the wall, a firm reminder ofanother friend lost. It’s apiece of the giant map,framed and gleaming behindglass. When I pick it up,something thumps to theground,fallingfromthebackoftheframe.

Iknewit.My heart races, beating

wildlyasIdroptomyknees,

hoping to find some secretnotefromJulian.Butinstead,there’s nothing more than abook.

Despite mydisappointment, I can’t helpsmiling. Of course Julianwouldleavemeanotherstory,anothercollectionofwordstocomfort me when he nolongercan.

I flip open the cover,expecting to find some new

histories, but instead,handwrittenwordsstareupatme from the title page. Redand silver. It’s in Julian’sunmistakableswirlingscrawl.

The sight line of myroom’scamerasbeat intomyback, remindingme Iamnotalone. Julian knew that too.BrilliantJulian.

Thebooklooksnormal,adull study of relics found inDelphie, but hidden among

the words, in the same type,is a secret worth telling. Ittakes me many minutes tofindeveryaddedlineandI’mquietlygrateful Iwokeupsoearly.FinallyIhavethemall,and I seem to have forgottenhowtobreathe.

Dane Davidson, Redsoldier, Storm Legion, killedonroutinepatrol,bodyneverrecovered.August1,296NE.Jane Barbaro, Red soldier,

Storm Legion, killed byfriendly fire, body cremated.November 19, 297 NE. PaceGardner, Red soldier, StormLegion, executed forinsubordination, bodymisplaced. June 4, 300 NE.There are more names,stretchingoverthelasttwentyyears,allofthemcrematedortheir bodies lost or“misplaced.” How anyonecan misplace an executed

man,Idon’tknow.Thenameat the end of the list makesmy eyes water. ShadeBarrow, Red soldier, StormLegion, executed fordesertion, body cremated.July27,320NE.

Julian’s own wordsfollow my brother’s name,andIfeellikehe’snexttomeagain, slowly and calmlyteachinghislesson.

According tomilitary law, all Redsoldiers are to beburied in thecemeteries of theChoke. Executedsoldiers have noburials and lie inmass graves.Cremation is notcommon. Misplacedbodies arenonexistent.And yet I

found 27 names, 27soldiers, your brotherincluded,whosufferedthesefates.

Alldiedonpatrol,killed by Lakelandersor their own units, ifnot executed forcharges without base.All were transferredto the Storm Legionweeks before dying.Andalloftheirbodies

weredestroyedorlostin some way. Why?The Storm Legion isnot a death squad—hundreds of Redsserve under GeneralEagrie without dyingstrangely. Sowhy killthese27?

For once, I wasglad for thebloodbase. Eventhough they are long

“dead,” their bloodsamples still remain.And now I mustapologize,Mare, for Ihavenotbeenentirelyhonest with you. Youtrusted me to trainyou,tohelpyou,andIdid, but I was alsohelpingmyself.Iamacuriousman, and youare the most curiousthingIhaveeverseen.

Icouldn’thelpmyself.I compared yourblood sample totheirs, only to findanidentical marker inthem, different fromallothers.

I’m not surprisedno one noticed,becausetheywerenotlookingforit.Butnowthat I knew, it waseasy to find. Your

blood is red, but it isnotthesame.Thereissomethingnewinyou,something no one hasseen before. And itwas in 27 others. Amutation, a changethatmaybethekeytoeverythingyouare.

You are not theonly one, Mare. Youarenotalone.Youaresimply the first

protected by the eyesofathousand,thefirsttheycouldnotkillandhide away. Like theothers, you are Redand Silver, andstrongerthanboth.

Ithinkyouarethefuture.I thinkyouarethenewdawn.

And if there were27 before, there mustbe others. Theremust

bemore.

Ifeelfrozen;Ifeelnumb;Ifeeleverythingandnothing.Otherslikeme.

Using themutations in yourblood, I searched therest of the bloodbase,finding the same inother samples. I haveincluded them all

here, for you to passon.

I know I don’tneed to tell you theimportanceofthislist,ofwhat itcouldmeanto youand the rest ofthis world. Pass it onto someone you trust,find the others,protect them, trainthem, for it is only amatter of time before

someone less friendlydiscoverswhat I have—and hunts themdown.

His words end there,followedbya list thatmakesmyfingerstremble.Therearenamesandlocations,somanyof them, all waiting to befound.Allwaitingtofight.

Mymindfeelslikeit’sonfire. Others. More. Julian’s

words swim acrossmy eyes,searingintomysoul.

Strongerthanboth.

The little book sits snugly inmy jacket, tucked in next tomyheart.ButbeforeIcangoto Maven, to show himJulian’s discovery, Cal findsme.Hecornersmeinasittingroom quite like the one wedanced in, though the moonand themusic are longgone.

Once Iwanted everything hecould give me, and now thesight of him turns mystomach. He can see therevulsioninmyface,asmuchasItrytohideit.

“You’re angry with me,”hesays.It’snotaquestion.

“I’mnot.”“Don’t lie,” he growls,

eyes suddenly on fire. I’vebeen lying since the day wemet. “Three days ago you

kissedme,andnowyoucan’tevenlookatme.”

“I’m betrothed to yourbrother,” I tell him, pullingaway.

He dismisses the pointwith the wave of a hand.“Thatdidn’t stopyoubefore.What’schanged?”

I’ve seen who you reallyare,Iwanttoscream.You’renot the gentle warrior, theperfect prince, or even the

confused boy you pretend tobe. As much as you try tofight it,you’re just likeallofthem.

“Is this about theterrorists?”

My teeth grit togetherpainfully.“Rebels.”

“They murdered people,children,innocents.”

“You and I both knowthatwasn’ttheir fault,” Ispitback, not bothering to care

howcruel thewords are.Calflinches, stunned for amoment. He almost lookssickasherememberstheSunShooting—and the accidentalexplosion that followed. Butit passes, slowly replaced byanger.

“Buttheycauseditallthesame,” he growls. “What Iordered the Sentinel to do,wasforthedead,forjustice.”

“Andwhatdidtortureget

you? Do you know theirnames, howmany there are?Doyouevenknowwhattheywant? Have you evenbotheredtolisten?”

He heaves a sigh, tryingto salvage the conversation.“I know you have your ownreasons for—forsympathizing, but theirmethodscannotbe—”

“Their methods are yourown fault. You make us

work,youmakeusbleed,youmake us die for your warsand factories and the littlecomforts you don’t evennotice, all because we aredifferent.Howcanyouexpectustoletthatstand?”

Cal fidgets, a muscle inhis cheek twitching. He hasnoanswertothat.

“Theonly reason I’mnotdeadinatrenchsomewhereisbecause you pitied me. The

only reason you’re evenlistening to me now isbecause, by some insanemiracle, I happen to beanotherkindofdifferent.”

Lazily, my sparks rise inmy hands. I can’t imaginegoing back to life beforemybody hummed with power,but I can certainly rememberit.

“You can stop this, Cal.Youwillbeking,andyoucan

stop this war, you can savethousands, millions, fromgenerations of glorifiedslavery,ifyousayenough.”

Something breaks in Cal,quenching thefirehe triessohardtohide.Hecrossestothewindow, hands claspedbehind his back. With therising sun on his face andshadowonhisback,heseemstorn between two worlds. Inmy heart, I know he is. The

littlepartofmethatstillcaresabout himwants to close thedistancebetweenus,butIamnot that foolish. I’m not alittlelovesickgirl.

“I thought that once,” hemutters.“Butitwouldleadtorebelliononbothsides,andIwillnotbethekingwhoruinsthis country. This is mylegacy, my father’s legacy,and I have a duty to it.” Aslow heat rumbles fromhim,

steaming the glass window.“Would you trade a milliondeathsforwhattheywant?”

A million deaths. Mymind flashes back to BelicosLerolan’s corpse, with hisdeadchildrenathisside.Andthenotherfacesjointhedead—Shade, Kilorn’s father,every Red soldier who diedfortheirwar.

“TheGuardwon’tstop,”Isay softly, but I know he’s

barely listening anymore.“Andwhiletheyarecertainlyto blame, you are as well.Thereisbloodonyourhands,Prince.” And Maven’s. Andmine.

I leave him standingthere, hoping I’ve changedhim but knowing those oddsare slim at best. He is hisfather’sson.

“Julian’s disappeared,hasn’the?”hecallsouttome,

stoppingmeinmytracks.I turn slowly, mulling

overwhatIcanpossiblysay.I decide to play dumb.“Disappeared?”

“The escape left holes inthe memories of manySentinels,aswellasthevideologs. My uncle does not usehisabilitiesoften,butIknowthesigns.”

“You think he helpedthemescape?”

“I do,” he says painfully,looking at his hands. “That’swhy Igavehimenough timetoslipaway.”

“You did what?” I can’tbelieve my ears. Cal, thesoldier, the one who alwaysfollows orders, breaking therulesforJulian.

“He’s my uncle, I didwhat I could for him. HowheartlessdoyouthinkIam?”He smirks sadly at me, not

waiting for an answer. Itmakes me ache. “I delayedthe arrest as long as I could,but everyone leaves tracks,andthequeenwillfindhim,”he sighs, putting a handagainst the glass. “And he’llbeexecuted.”

“You’d do that to youruncle?”Idon’tbothertohidemy disgust, or the fearbeneath. If he’ll kill Julian,even after letting him go,

what will he do to me whenI’mfoundout?

Cal’sshoulders tightenashestraightens,morphingbackinto the soldier.Hewill hearno more of Julian or theScarletGuard.

“Mavenhadaninterestingproposition.”

That was unexpected.“Oh?”

He nods, oddly annoyedat the thought of his brother.

“Mavey’s always been aquick thinker. He got thatfromhismother.”

“Isthatsupposedtoscareme?” I know better than anythatMavenisnothinglikehismother, or anyother damnedSilver. “What are you tryingtosay,Cal?”

“You’re in the opennow,” he blurts out. “Afteryour speech, the entirecountry knows your name

and face. And so more willwonder who and what youare.”

I can only scowl andshrug.“Maybeyoushould’vethought of that before youmademereadthatdisgustingspeech.”

“I’m a soldier, not apolitician. You know I hadnothing to do with theMeasures.”

“But you’ll follow them.

You’ll follow them withoutquestion.”

Hedoesn’targuethat.Forallhisfaults,Calwon’tlietome.Notnow.“Allrecordsofyou have been removed.Officers, archivists, no onewilleverfindproofyouwerebornRed,”hemurmurs,eyeson the floor. “That is whatMavenproposed.”

Despitemy anger, I gaspaloud. The bloodbase. The

records. “What does thatmean?” I don’t have thestrength to keep my voicefromshaking.

“Yourschoolrecord,birthcertificate, blood prints, evenyour ID card have beendestroyed.” Ibarelyhearhimover the sound of myhammeringheartbeat.

Once, I would havehugged him outright. But Imust remain still. I must not

letCalknowhehassavedmeagain.No, not Cal. ThiswasMaven’s doing.Thiswas theshadowcontrollingtheflame.

“That sounds like therightthingtodo,”Isayaloud,tryingtosounduninterested.

But my act can only lastsolong.AfteronestiffbowinCal’s direction, I hurry fromthe room, hiding my wildgrin.

TWENTY-FOUR

Ispendmuchof thenextdayexploring,thoughmymindissomewhere else.Whitefire isolder than the Hall, its wallsmade of stone and carvedwood rather thandiamondglass. I doubt I’llever learn the layout of thewhole thing, as it holds notjust the royal residence but

many administrative officesand chambers, ballrooms, afull training court, and otherthings I don’t understand. Iguess that’s why it takes thesecretarynearlyahalfhourtofindme,wanderingthroughagalleryofstatues.ButIwon’thavemore time to explore. Ihavedutiestofulfill.

Duties, according to theking’schattingsecretary,thatapply to a whole range of

evils beyond just reading theMeasures. As a futureprincess, I must meet thepeople in arranged outings,makingspeechesandshakinghands and standing byMaven’s side. The last partdoesn’t really botherme, butbeing put on parade like agoat at auction isn’t exactlyexciting.

I join Maven in atransport,headed for the first

appearance.I’mitchingtotellhim about the list and thankhim for the bloodbase, butthere are too many eyes andears.

The majority of the dayspeeds by in a blur of noiseandcoloraswetourdifferentparts of the capital. TheBridgeMarketremindsmeofGrand Garden, though it’sthree times the size. In thesinglehourwespendgreeting

children and shopkeepers, Isee the Silvers assault oraggravate dozens of Redservants,alltryingtodotheirjobs. Security keeps themfrom all-out abuse, but thewordstheyslingarealmostashurtful. Child killers,animals,devils.Mavenkeepshis grip tight on my hand,squeezingeverytimeaRedisknockedtotheground.Whenwereachournextstop,anart

gallery,I’mgladtobeoutofthepubliceye,until Iseethepaintings. The Silver artistuses two colors, silver andred, inahorrifyingcollectionthat makes me sick. Eachpainting is worse than thelast, depictingSilver strengthand Red weakness in everybrushstroke. The last onedepicts a gray-and-silverfigure,quitelikeaghost,andthecrownonhisbrowbleeds

crimson.Itmakesmewanttoputmyheadthroughawall.

The plaza outside thegalleryisnoisy,bustlingwithcity life.Many stop to stare,gawkingatusasweheadforour transport. Maven waveswith a practiced smile,causing the crowd to cheerhis name. He’s good at this;after all, these people are hisbirthright.Whenhestoops tospeakwithafewchildren,his

smilebrightens.Calmightbeborn to rule, butMavenwasmeant for it. And Maven iswilling to change the worldfor us, for the Reds he wasraisedtospiton.

I surreptitiously touch thelist inmypocket, thinkingoftheoneswhocanhelpMavenandmechangetheworld.Arethey like me, or are they asvaried as the Silvers? Shadewas like you. They knew

about Shade and had to killhim, like they could not killyou. My heart aches for myfallen brother, for theconversationswemight havehad.For the futurewemighthaveforged.

But Shade is dead, andthereareotherswhoneedmyhelp.

“WeneedtofindFarley,”I whisper in Maven’s ear,barelyaudible tomyself.But

he hears me and raises aneyebrowinsilentquestion.“Ihavetogivehersomething.”

“I have no doubt she’llfindus,”hemuttersback,“ifsheisn’twatchingalready.”

“How—?”Farley, spying on us?

Inside a city that wants hertorn apart? It seemsimpossible.But then I noticethe Silver crowd pressing in,andtheRedservantsbeyond.

A few linger to watch us,their arms banded with red.Anyoneof themcouldworkfor Farley. They all could.Even with the Sentinels andSecurityallaround,she’sstillwithus.

Now the questionbecomes finding the rightRed, saying the right thing,finding the right place, anddoing it all without anyonenoticing the prince and his

future princesscommunicatingwithawantedterrorist.

This isn’t like thecrowdsat home, the ones I couldmovethroughsoeasily.NowI stand out, a future princesssurroundedbyguards,witharebellion resting on hershoulders. And maybe evensomething more important, Ithink,rememberingthelistofnamesinmyjacket.

When the crowd pushesin, craning to look at us, Itake my chance and slipaway. The Sentinels buncharoundMaven, still not usedto guarding me as well, andwith a few quick turns, I’moutofthecircleofguardsandonlookers. They continueacross the plaza without me,and if Maven notices I’mgone,hedoesn’tstopthem.

The Red servants don’t

acknowledgeme, their headsdown as they buzz betweenshops. They keep to alleysand shadows, trying to stayout of sight. I’m so busysearchingtheRedfacesthatIdon’t notice the one at myelbow.

“My lady, you droppedthis,”thelittleboysays.He’sprobably ten years old, withone arm banded with red.“Mylady?”

ThenInoticethescrapheholdsout. It’snothing, just atwisted bit of paper I don’tremember having. Still, Ismile for the boy and take itfrom him. “Thank you verymuch.”

Hegrinsatme,smilingasonly a child can, beforebounding away into an alley.He bounces with every step.Life has not dragged himdownyet.

“This way, LadyTitanos.” A Sentinel standsover me, watching with flateyes.Somuchforthatplan.Ilet him lead me back to thetransport, feeling suddenlydejected. I can’t even sneakaway like I used to. I’mgettingsoft.

“What was that allabout?”Mavenwonders as Islidebackintothetransport.

“Nothing,” I sigh, casting

a glance out the window aswepullawayfromtheplaza.“ThoughtIsawsomeone.”

We’re around a bend inthe street before I even thinkto look at the little paper. Iunfolditinmylap,hidingthescrap in the folds of mysleeve. There are wordsscrawled across the slip, sosmallIcanbarelyreadthem.

Hexaprin Theater.

Afternoon play. Thebestseats.

It takes me a moment torealizeIonlyunderstandhalfthosewords, but that doesn’tmatteratall.Smiling, Ipressthe message into Maven’shand.

Maven’srequestisallittakestogetus into the theater. It’ssmall but very grand, with a

greendomedroofcrownedbya black swan. It’s a place ofentertainment, showing playsor concerts or even somearchive films on specialoccasions. A play, asMaventells me, is when people,actors, perform a story on astage. Back home we didn’thave time for bedtime fairytales, let alone stages andactorsandcostumes.

Before I know it, we’re

sitting on a closed balconyabove the stage. The seatsbelow us teem with people,manyofthemchildren,allofthemSilver.AfewRedsrovebetween the rows and aisles,serving drinks or takingtickets, but none sit down.This isnot a luxury theycanafford.Meanwhile,we sit onvelvet chairs with the bestview, with the secretary andthe Sentinels standing just

beyondourcurtaineddoor.Whenthetheaterdarkens,

Maven throws an arm acrossmy shoulders, pulling me socloseIcanfeelhisheartbeat.He smirks at the secretary,now peeking between thecurtains. “Don’t disturb us,”he drawls, and he pulls myfacetohis.

Thedoorclicksbehindus,lockingshut,butneitherofuspulls away. A minute or an

hour passes, which I don’tknow, until voices onstagebring me back to reality.“Sorry,” I mutter to Maven,standingupoutofmychairinanefforttoputsomedistancebetween us. There’s no timefor kissing now, no matterhow much I might want to.Heonlysmirks,watchingmeinstead of the play. I do mybest to look elsewhere, butsomething always draws my

eyesbacktohim.“Whatdowedonow?”Helaughstohimself,eyes

glintingmischievously.“That’s not what I

meant.” But I can’t help butsmirkwithhim.

“Calcorneredmeearlier.”Maven’s lips purse,

tightening at the thought.“And?”

“It seems I’ve beensaved.”

His resulting grin couldlighttheworldentire,andI’mseizedbytheneedtokisshimagain. “I told you I would,”he says, his voice oddlyrough.Whenhishandreachesfor mine, I take it withoutquestion.

Before we can continue,the ceiling panel above usscrapes away. Maven jumpstohisfeet,morestartledthanIam,andpeersintotheblack

space above us. Not even awhisper filters down, but allthesame,Iknowwhat todo.Training has made mestronger,andIpullmyselfupwith ease, disappearing intothedarkandcold.Ican’tseeanything or anyone, but I’mnot afraid. Excitement rulesme now, andwith a smile, Ireach down a hand to helpMaven.Hescramblesupintothe darkness and tries to get

hisbearings.Beforeoureyesadjust,theceilingpanelslidesback into place, shutting outthelightandtheplayandthepeoplebeyond.

“Be quick and quiet. I’lltakeyoufromhere.”

It’s not the voice Irecognize but the smell: anoverpoweringmixture of tea,oldspices,andafamiliarbluecandle.

“Will?”My voice almost

cracks.“WillWhistle?”Slowly but surely, the

darkness becomes easier tomanage. His white beard,tangled as ever, comes intodim focus. There’s nomistakingitnow.

“No time for reunions,little Barrow,” he says. “Wehaveworktodo.”

How Will came to behere, traveling all the wayfromtheStilts,Idon’tknow,

buthisintimateknowledgeofthe theater is even morepeculiar.He leadsus throughtheceiling,downladdersandsteps and little trapdoors, allwith the play echoingoverhead.It’snotlongbeforewe’re belowground, withbrick supports and metalbeams stretching high aboveus.

“You people sure like tobedramatic,”Mavenmutters,

eyeing the gloom around us.Itlookslikeacrypt,darkanddamp, where every shadowholdsahorror.

Will barely laughs as heshoulders open ametal door.“Justyouwait.”

We tramp through thenarrow passage, slopingdownward even farther. Theair smells faintly of sewage.Tomysurprise,thepathendsin a small platform, lit by

only a burning torch. It castsstrange shadows on acrumbling wall set withbroken tiles. There are blackmarkingsonthem,letters,butnot from any language I canread.

Before I can ask aboutthem, a great screechingsound shakes the wallsaround us. It comes from around hole in the wall,rumbling up from even

greater darkness. Mavengrabsmyhand,startledbythesound, and I’m just asfrightened as him. Metalscrapes on metal, anearsplitting noise. Brightlightsstreamoutofthetunneland I can feel somethingcoming, something big andelectricandpowerful.

A metal worm appears,coasting to a stop in front ofus. The sides are raw metal,

welded and bolted together,with slit-like windows. Adoorslidesopenonshriekingtracks, spilling a warm glowontotheplatform.

Farleysmilestousfromaseat inside the door. Shewaves a hand, gesturing forustojoinher.“Allaboard.”

“The techies call it theUndertrain,” she says as weshakily take our seats.“Remarkablyfast,anditruns

on the ancient tracks theSilversneverbotheredtolookfor.”

Will shuts the doorbehind us, slamming us intowhat feels like nothingmorethan a long tin can. If Iweren’t soworried about theunder-thing crashing, I’d beimpressed. Instead, I tightenmygripontheseatbelowme.

“Where did you buildthis?”Mavenwonders aloud,

his eyes sweeping over thewretched cage. “Gray Towniscontrolled,thetechiesworkfor—”

“We have techies andtech towns of our own, littleprince,” Farley says, lookingvery proud of herself. “Whatyou Silvers know about theGuardcouldn’tfillateacup.”

The train lurches beneathus, almost tossing me frommyseat,butnooneelseeven

bats an eye. It slides alonguntil it reaches a speed thatsmacks my stomach into myspine. The others continuechattering, mostly Mavenasking questions about theUndertrain and the Guard.I’m glad no one asks me tospeak, because I’ll certainlythrow up or pass out if I domuchmore than sit still. Butnot Maven. Nothing gets byhim.

He glances out thewindow, gleaning somethingfrom the rock blurring past.“We’reheadingsouth.”

Farley sits back in herseat,nodding.“Yes.”

“The south is radiated,”hebarks,staringdownather.

Shebarelyshrugs.“Where are you taking

us?”Imurmur,finallyfindingmyvoice.

Maven doesn’twaste any

time, moving for the closeddoor. No one stops himbecause there’s nowhere forhimtogo.Noescape.

“Youknowwhat itdoes?Radiation?” He sounds trulyafraid.

Farley begins to tick offthe symptomsonher fingers,amaddeningsmilestillonherface. “Nausea, vomiting,headache,seizures,cancerousdiseases, and, oh yes, death.

Averyunpleasantdeath.”SuddenlyIfeelverysick.

“Why are you doing this?We’reheretohelpyou.”

“Mare,stopthetrain,youcan stop the train.” Mavendropsinfrontofme,grabbingme by the shoulders. “Stopthetrain!”

To my surprise, the tincan squeals around us,coming to a very sharp andsudden stop. Maven and I

tumbletothefloorinatangleof limbs, hitting the hardmetal deck with a painfulthunk. Lights beam down atus from the open door,revealinganotherplatform litby torches. It’s much largerand leads far back out ofsight.

Farley stepsover thepairof us without so much as aglance and trots onto theplatform. “Aren’t you

coming?”“Don’tmove,Mare. This

placewillkillus!”Something whines in my

ears, almost drowning outFarley’s cold laugh. As I situp, I can see she’s waitingpatientlyforbothofus.

“How do you know thesouth, the Ruins, are stillradiated?” she asks with amadsmile.

Maven trips over the

words. “We have machines,detectors,theytellus—”

Farley nods. “And whobuiltthosemachines?”

“Techies,”Mavencroaks,“Reds.” Finally, heunderstands what she’sgettingat.“Thedetectorslie.”

Grinning,Farleynodsandextends a hand, helping himoff the floor. He keeps hiseyes on her, still wary, butallowshertoleadusoutonto

the platform and up an ironsetofstairs.Sunlightstreamsin from above, and fresh airswirls down to mix with themurky vapors of theunderground.

Then we’re blinking inthe open air, staring up atlow-lying fog. Walls rise allaround, supporting a ceilingthat no longer exists. Onlypieces of it remain, little bitsof aquamarine and gold. As

myeyesadjust, Icansee tallshadowsinthesky,theirtopsdisappearing into the haze.Thestreets,wideblackriversof asphalt, are cracked andsprouting gray weeds ahundredyears old.Trees andbushes grow over concrete,reclaiming little pockets andcorners, but even more havebeen cleared away. Shatteredglasscrunchesundermy feetandcloudsofdustdriftinthe

wind, but somehow thisplace, the picture of neglect,doesn’t feel abandoned. Iknow this place from thehistories, from thebooksandoldmaps.

Farleyputsanarmaroundmyshoulders,hersmilewideandwhite.

“Welcome to the City ofRuins, toNaercey,”shesays,using the old name forgottenlongago.

The ruined island containsspecial markers around theborders, to trick the radiationdetectors the Silvers use tosurvey the old battlefields.This is how they protect it,the home of the ScarletGuard. In Norta, at least.That’s what Farley said,hinting at more bases acrossthecountry.Andsoon,itwillbethesanctuaryofeveryRedrefugee fleeing the king’s

newpunishments.Every building we pass

looks decrepit, coated in ashand weeds, but upon closerinspection, there’s somethingmuchmore.Footprints in thedust,alightinawindow,thesmell of cooking wafting upfrom a drain. People, Reds,haveacityoftheirownrighthere, hiding in plain sight.Electricity is scarce butsmilesarenot.

The half-collapsedbuilding Farley leads us tomust’ve been some kind ofcafé once, judging by therust-eaten tables and ripped-upbooth seats.Thewindowshave long since disappeared,but the floor is clean. Awoman sweeps dust out thedoor, into neat piles on thebroken sidewalk. I would bedaunted by such a task,knowingthatthereissomuch

left to sweep away, but shecarries on with a smile,hummingtoherself.

Farley nods at thecleaning woman, and shehurries away, leaving us inpeace. To my delight, thebooth closest to us holds afamiliarface.

Kilorn, safe and whole.He even has the audacity towink.“Longtimenosee.”

“There’s no time to get

cute,”Farleygrowls,takingaseatnexttohim.Shegesturesfor us to follow and we do,sliding into the squeakybooth. “I take it you saw thevillages on your cruise downtheriver?”

My smile quickly fades,asdoesKilorn’s.“Yes.”

“And the new laws? Iknow you’ve heard aboutthem.”Her eyes harden, likeit’smy fault I was forced to

readtheMeasures.“This is what happens

when you threaten a beast,”Maven mutters, jumping tomydefense.

“But now they know ourname.”

“Now they’re huntingyou,”Maven snaps, bringinga fist down on the table. Itshakes the thin layer of dust,sending floating clouds intotheair.“Youwavedaredflag

infrontofabullbutdidn’tdomuch more than poke athim.”

“They’re frightenedthough,” I pipe in. “They’velearned to fear you.That hastocountforsomething.”

“It counts for nothing ifyou slink back into yourhidden city and let themregroup. You’re giving theking and the army time.Mybrother is already on your

trail, and it won’t be longuntil he tracks you down.”Maven stares at his hands,strangely angry. “Soonstayingone stepaheadwon’tbe enough. It won’t even bepossible.”

Farley’s eyes glimmer inthe light as she surveys usboth, thinking. Kilorn iscontent to draw circles indust, seemingly unmoved. Ifight the urge to kick him

under the table to make himpayattention.

“Icouldn’tcarelessaboutmy own safety, Prince,”Farley says. “It’s the peoplein the villages, the workersand the soldiers, who I careabout.They’retheonesbeingpunished right now, andharshly.”

My thoughts fly to myfamily and the Stilts,remembering thedull look in

athousandeyesaswepassed.“Whathaveyouheard?”

“Nothinggood.”Kilorn’s head jerks up,

though his fingers still swirlon the table. “Double workshifts,Sundayhangings,massgraves. It’s not pretty for theones who can’t keep up thepace.”He’srememberingourvillage, just like I am. “Ourpeopleat thewar front say itisn’t much different up there

either. The fifteen- andsixteen-year-olds are beingput into their own legion.Theywon’tsurviveforlong.”

His fingers draw anX inthe dust, angrily markingwhathefeels.

“I can stall that, maybe,”Maven says, brainstormingout loud. “If I convince thewar council to hold themback, put them through extratraining.”

“That’s not enough.”Myvoice is small but firm. Thelistseemstoburnagainstmyskin,begging tobe let free. Iturn to Farley. “You havepeopleallover,don’tyou?”

I don’t miss the shadowof satisfactioncrossher face.“Ido.”

“Then give them thesenames.” I pull Julian’s bookfrom my jacket, opening tothe beginning of the list.

“Andfindthem.”Maven gently takes the

book, his eyes scanning overit.“Theremustbehundreds,”hemutters,not lookingawayfrom the page. “What isthis?”

“They’re like me. RedandSilver, and stronger thanboth.”

It’smyturntofeelsmug.Even Maven’s jaw drops.Farley snaps her fingers, and

he hands it over without athought, still staring at thelittle book that holds such apowerfulsecret.

“Itwon’tbelonguntilthewrongpersonfiguresthisout,though,” I add. “Farley, youmustfindthemfirst.”

Kilornglaresatthenamesliketheyofferhimsomekindof insult. “This could takemonths,years.”

Maven huffs. “We don’t

havethatkindoftime.”“Exactly,” Kilorn agrees.

“Weneedtoactnow.”I shake my head.

Revolutions cannot berushed. “But if you wait, ifyou findasmanyasyoucan—youcouldhaveanarmy.”

Suddenly, Maven slapsthe table, causing us all tojump.“Butwedohaveone.”

“I have many under mycommand here, but not that

many,” Farley argues,looking at Maven like he’sgonemad.

But he grins, alive withsomehiddenfire.“IfIcangetanarmy,alegioninArcheon,whatcouldyoudo?”

She just shrugs. “Verylittle, actually. The otherlegionswould crush themonthefield.”

It hits me like athunderbolt, and I finally

realizewhatMavenisgettingat. “But they won’t fight onthefield,”Ibreathe.Heturnsto me, smiling like a crazedloon.“You’retalkingaboutacoup.”

Farleyfrowns.“Acoo?”“A coup, a coup d’état.

It’s a history thing, a beforething,” I explain, trying towaveofftheirconfusion.“It’swhen a small group quicklyoverthrows a large

government. Soundfamiliar?”

Farley and Kilornexchange glances, eyesnarrowed.“Goon,”shesays.

“You know the wayArcheon’s built, with theBridge,theWestside,andtheEast side.” My fingers racealong with my words,drawing a rough map of thecity in the dust. “Now, theWest side has the palace,

command, the treasury, thecourts,theentiregovernment.And if somehow we can getin there, cut it off, get to theking, andmake him agree toour terms—it’s all over.Yousaid it yourself, Maven, youcan run the whole countryfromCaesar’sSquare.Allwehavetodoistakeit.”

Under the table, Mavenpats me on the knee. He’sbuzzing with pride. Farley’s

usualsuspiciouslookisgone,replaced by real hope. Sheruns a hand over her lips,mouthingwords toherself assheeyesthedust-drawnplan.

“This might just be me,”Kilornbegins,fallingbacktohisusualsnidetone,“butI’mnotexactlysurehowyouplantogetenoughRedsintheretofightSilvers.Youneedtenofustobringdownoneofthem.Not to mention there’s the

five thousand Silver soldiersloyal to your brother”—heglances at Maven—“alltrained to kill, all trying tohuntusdownaswespeak.”

I deflate, falling backagainst the seat. “That couldbedifficult.”Impossible.

Maven brushes a handover my dust map, wipingaway West Archeon with afew strokes of his fingers.“Legions are loyal to their

generals. And I happen toknow a girl who knows ageneralverywell.”

Whenhiseyesmeetmine,all his fire is gone, replacednowbybittercold.Hesmilestightly.

“You’re talking aboutCal.” The soldier. Thegeneral. The prince. Hisfather’sson.AgainI thinkofJulian,oftheuncleCalwouldkill forhis twistedversionof

justice. Cal would neverbetray his country, not foranything.

When Maven answers,it’s matter-of-fact. “We givehimahardchoice.”

IcanfeelKilorn’seyesonmy face, weighing myreaction, and it’s almost toomuch pressure to bear. “Calwill never turn his back onhiscrown,onyourfather.”

“I knowmy brother. If it

comes down to it, to savingyourlifeorsavinghiscrown,we both know what he willchoose,”Mavenfiresback.

“He would never chooseme.”

My skin burns underMaven’s gaze, with thememoryofonestolenkiss.Itwashimwhosavedme fromEvangeline. Cal who savedme from escaping andbringing more pain upon

myself. Cal who saved mefrom conscription. I’ve beentoobusytryingtosaveotherstonoticehowmuchCalsavesme.Howmuchhelovesme.

Suddenlyit’sveryhardtobreathe.

Maven shakes his head.“Hewillalwayschooseyou.”

Farley scoffs. “You wantme to pin my entireoperation, the entirerevolution,onsome teenaged

love story? I can’t believethis.”

Acrossthetable,astrangelook crosses Kilorn’s face.When Farley turns to him,looking for some kind ofsupport,shefindsnone.

“I can,” he whispers, hiseyesneverleavingmyface.

TWENTY-FIVE

As Maven and I are drivenacross the Bridge, headingback to the palace after ourlong day of handshakes andsecretplans, Iwish thedawnwould begin tonight insteadof tomorrow morning. I’mintenselyawareoftherumblearound us while we passthrough the city. Everything

pulses with energy, from thetransportsonthestreetstothelights woven into steel andconcrete.Itremindsmeofthemoment in Grand Gardenlongago,whenIwatchedthenymphsplay ina fountainorthe greenys attend theirflowers. In that instant, Ifound theirworldbeautiful. Iunderstand now why theywant to keep it, to maintaintheirruleoveralltherest,but

that doesn’t mean I’ll letthem.

There’s usually a feast tocelebrate the king’s return tohiscity,butinlightofrecentevents, Caesar’s Square ismuch quieter than it shouldbe.Mavenpretendstolamentthe lack of spectacle, if onlytofillthesilence.

“Thebanquethallistwicethe size of the one at theHall,”hesaysasweenterthe

great gates. I can see part ofCal’s legion drilling at thebarracks, a thousand of themmarchingintime.Theirstepsbeatlikeadrum.“Weusedtodance until dawn—at least,Cal did. Girls didn’t ask metodancemuch,notunlessCalmadethem.”

“I would ask you todance,” I murmur back tohim, my eyes still on thebarracks. Will they be ours

tomorrow?Maven doesn’t answer,

shifting in his seat as wecoast to a stop. He willalwayschooseyou.

“IfeelnothingforCal,”Iwhisper in his ear as weclamberoutofthetransport.

He smiles, his handclosing around mine, and Itellmyselfit’snotalie.

When the doors to thepalaceopentous,awretched

scream twists through thelong marbled passages.Maven and I exchangeglances, startled. Our guardsbristle,handsstrayingtotheirguns, but they aren’t enoughto stop me from bolting.Maven keeps up as best hecan,tryingtomatchmypace.The scream sounds again,accompanied by a dozenmarchingfeetandthefamiliarclankofarmor.

Ibreakintoadeadsprint,Maven right behind me. Weburstintoaroundchamber,acouncil hall of polishedmarble and dark wood.There’salreadyacrowdandIalmost collide with LordSamos himself, but my feetstop me just in time. Mavenslams into my back, nearlyknockingusover.

Samos sneers at both ofus, his black eyes cold and

hard.“Mylady,PrinceMaven,”

he says, barely inclining hishead to either of us. “Haveyoucometoseetheshow?”

Theshow.Thereareotherlords and ladies around us,along with the king andqueen, all staring straightahead. I push through them,notknowingwhatI’llfindonthe other side, but I know itwon’t be good. Maven

follows, his hand neverleavingmy elbow.Whenwereach the front of the crowd,I’mgladforhiswarmhand,acomfort to keep me quiet—andtopullmeback.

No less than sixteensoldiersstandinthecenterofthechamber,theirbootedfeettracking dirt over the greatcrownseal.Theirarmoristhesame, scaled black metal,exceptforonewithareddish

glint.Cal.Evangeline stands with

him,herhairpulledbackintoabraid.Shebreathesheavily,winded, but looks proud ofherself. And where there’sEvangeline, her brothercannotbefarbehind.

Ptolemus appears fromthe back of the pack,dragging a screaming bodyby her hair. Cal turns awayand meets my eyes the

momentIrecognizeher.Icansee regret there, but he doesnothingtosaveher.

Ptolemus tossesWalsh tothe polished floor, her facesmashing against the rock.Shebarely sparesaglanceatmebefore turningherpainedeyesontheking.Irememberthe playful, smiling servantwho first introduced me tothis world; that person isgone.

“Theratscrawlintheoldtunnels,” Ptolemus snarls,turningheroverwithhisfoot.Shescramblesawayfromhistouch, surprisingly quick forhermanyinjuries.“Wefoundthis one trailing us near theriverholes.”

Trailingthem?Howcouldshe be so stupid? ButWalshisn’t stupid.No, this was anorder, I realizewithgrowinghorror.Shewaswatching the

traintunnels,makingsuretheway was clear for us to getback from Naercey. Andwhile we made it throughsafely,shedidnot.

Maven’s grip onmy armtightens, pullingme intohimuntilhischestliesflushtomyback.HeknowsIwanttorunto her, to save her, to helpher.And I knowwe can’t doanythingatall.

“We went as far as the

radiation detectors wouldallow,” Cal adds, trying hisbest to ignore Walshcoughing up blood. “Thetunnel system is huge, muchlarger than we originallythought. There must bedozens of miles in the areaand the Scarlet Guard knowthembetterthananyofus.”

King Tiberias scowlsbeneath his beard. HegesturesatWalsh,wavingher

forward.Calseizesherbythearm, pulling her toward theking. A thousand differenttortures fill my head, eachoneworse than the last.Fire,metal, water, even my ownlightning, could be used tomakehertalk.

“Iwillnotmakethesamemistake again,” the kinggrowls into her face. “Elara,makehersing.Rightnow.”

“With pleasure,” the

queen replies, freeing herhands from her trailingsleeves.

This isworse.Walshwilltalk, she’ll implicate us all,she’ll ruin us. And thenthey’llkillherslowly.They’llkillusallslowly.

AnEagrieinthecrowdofsoldiers, an eye with theability of foresight, suddenlyjumps forward. “Stop her!Holdherarms!”

But Walsh is faster thanhis vision. “ForTristan,” shesays,beforeslammingahandtohermouth.Shebitesdownon something and swallows,knockingherheadback.

“A healer!” Cal snaps,grabbingher throat, trying tostop her. But her mouthfoams white and her limbstwitch—she’s choking. “Ahealer,now!”

She seizes violently,

twisting out of his grip withthelastofherstrength.Whenshehitsthefloor,hereyesarewide-open, staring but notseeing.Dead.

ForTristan.Ican’tevenmournher.

“Asuicidepill.”Cal’svoice isgentle, like

he’sexplainingthistoachild.But I suppose I am a childwhen it comes to war and

death. “We give them toofficers on the line, and ourspies.Ifthey’recaptured—”

“They won’t talk,” I spitbackathim.

Careful, I warn myself.As much as his presencemakesmy skin crawl, I haveto endure it. After all, I lethim find me here on thebalcony. I must give himhope. Imust lethim thinkhehas a chance with me. That

part was Maven’s idea, asmuchasithurthimtosayso.As for me, it’s hard to walkthenarrowlinebetweena lieand the truth, especiallywithCal. I hate him, I know that,butsomethinginhiseyesandhisvoiceremindsmethatmyfeelingsaren’tsosimple.

He keeps his distance,standing an arm’s lengthaway.“It’sabetterdeaththanshewouldgetfromus.”

“Wouldshebefrozen?Ormaybeburnedforachangeofpace?”

“No.”Heshakeshishead.“ShewouldgototheBowlofBones.” He raises his eyesfrom the barracks, lookingacross the river. On the farside,nestledamongthehigh-rises, isamassiveovalarenawithspikesaroundtheriminaviolentcrown.TheBowlofBones.“She’dbeexecutedin

a broadcast, as a message toalltherest.”

“I thought you didn’t dothat anymore. I haven’t seenone in over a decade.” Ibarely remember thosebroadcastsfromwhenIwasalittlegirl,yearsago.

“Exceptionscanbemade.The arena fights haven’tstopped the Guard fromtaking hold, maybesomethingelsewill.”

“You knew her,” Iwhisper, trying to find justone shred of regret in him.“Yousenther tomeafterwefirstmet.”

He crosses his arms, likethatcansomehowprotecthimfrom the memory. “I knewshecamefromyourvillage.Ithought that might help youadjustalittle.”

“I still don’t know whyyou cared. You didn’t even

knowIwasdifferent.”A moment passes in

silence, broken only by thebarkoflieutenantsfarbelow,still drilling even as the sunsets.

“You were different tome,”hefinallymurmurs.

“I wonder what couldhave been, if all this”—Igesture to the palace and theSquare beyond—“wasn’tbetweenus.”

Lethimchewonthat.He puts a hand on my

arm, his fingers hot throughthefabricofmysleeve.

“But that can never be,Cal.”

IforceasmuchlongingasIcanintomyeyes,relyingonthe memory of my family,Maven,Kilorn, all the thingswe’re trying to do. MaybeCalwillmistakemyfeelings.Give him hope where none

should be. It’s the cruelestthing I can do, but for thecause,formyfriends,formylife,Iwill.

“Mare,” he breathes,dippinghisheadtowardme.

I turn away, leaving himonthebalconytothinkonmywords and, hopefully, drowninthem.

“I wish things weredifferent,” hewhispers, but Icanstillhearhim.

The words take me backto my home and my fatherwhen he said the same thingsolongago.TothinkthatCalandmy father, a brokenRedman, can share the samethoughts makes me pause. Ican’t help looking back,watching the sun dip behindhissilhouette.Hestaresdownat the training army beforelooking back to me, tornbetween his duty and

whateverhefeelsforthelittlelightninggirl.

“Julian says you’re likeher,” he says quietly, eyesthoughtful. “Like sheused tobe.”

Coriane.Hismother.Thethought of the dead queen, aperson I never knew,somehowmakesmesad.Shewas taken too soon fromthosesheloved,andsheleftahole they’re trying to make

mefill.Andasmuchas Ihate to

admitit,Ican’tblameCalforfeeling caught between twoworlds.Afterall,soamI.

BeforetheballIwasanxious,a bundle of nerves dreadingthe night to come. Now Ican’t wait for dawn. If wewin in the morning, the sunwill setonanewworld.Theking will throw down his

crown, passing his power tome, Maven, and Farley. Theshift will be bloodless, apeaceful transition from onegovernmenttothenext.Ifwefail,theBowlofBonesisallIcanhopefor.Butwewillnotfail. Cal will not let me die,andneitherwillMaven.Theyaremyshields.

When I lie down in mybed, I find myself staring atJulian’s map. It’s an old

thing, practically useless, butstillcomforting.It’sprooftheworldcanchange.

With that thought in myhead, I drift into a restless,light sleep.My brother visitsme inmy dreams.He standsbythewindow,lookingatthecity with a strange sorrow,before turning back to me.“There are others,” he says.“Youmustfindthem.”

“Iwill,”Imurmurbackto

him, my voice heavy withsleep.

Then it’s four o’clock inthe morning and I have nomoretimefordreams.

Thecamerasfallliketreesbefore the ax, each little eyeclicking off as I walk toMaven’s room. I jump atevery shadow, expecting anofficer or a Sentinel to stepout into the hall, but no onedoes. They protect Cal and

the king, not me, not thesecond prince. We don’tmatter.Butwewill.

Maven opens his door asecond after I jiggle thehandle, his face pale in thedarkness. There are circlesbeneath his eyes, like hehasn’t slept at all, but helooks sharp as ever. I expecthim to take my arm, toenvelop me in his warmth,but there’s nothing but cold

drippingoffhim.He’safraid,Irealize.

We’re outside in a fewagonizing minutes, walkingin the shadows behind WarCommandtowaitatourplacebetweenthestructureandtheouter wall. Our spot isperfect;we’reable to see theSquare and the Bridge, withmost of War Command’sgilded roof blocking us fromthe patrols. I don’t need a

clock toknowwe’re rightontime.

Aboveus,thenightfades,givingway todarkblue.Thedawniscoming.

At this hour, the city isquieter than I ever thoughtpossible. Even the patrolguards are drowsy, slowlymoving from post to post.Excitement trills throughme,making my legs shake.Somehow,Mavenkeepsstill,

barely even blinking. Hestares through thediamondglass wall, alwayswatching the Bridge. Hisfocusisstaggering.

“They’re late,” hewhispers,nevermoving.

“I’mnot.”If I didn’t know any

better, I’d thinkFarleywasashadow, able to shift in andoutofvisibility.Sheseemstomeltoutofthesemidarkness,

pulling herself up from adrain.

I offer her my hand, butshepushesherself toher feetalone. “Where are theothers?”

“Waiting.” She gesturestothegroundbelow.

If I squint, I can just seethem, crowded into the drainsystem, about to retake thesurface. I want to climb intothetunnelwiththem,tostand

withKilornandmykind,butmy place is here, next toMaven.

“Are they armed?”Maven’s lips barely move.“Aretheyreadytofight?”

Farley nods. “Always.But I’mnot calling themoutuntilyou’resuretheSquareisours.Idon’tputmuchfaithinLady Barrow’s ability tocharm.”

Neither do I, but I can’t

say that out loud. He willalwayschooseyou.I’veneverwanted anything to be rightand yet wrong at the sametime.

“Kilorn wanted you tohave this,” she adds, holdingout her hand. In it is a tinygreen stone, the color of hiseyes. An earring. “He saidyou’dknowwhatitmeans.”

I choke on my words,feeling a great surge of

emotion.Nodding, I take theearring from her and raise itto the others. Bree, Tramy,Shade—I know each stoneandwhattheymean.Kilornisawarriornow.Andhewantsme to remember him as hewas. Laughing, teasing me,sniffing around like a lostpuppy. I will never forgetthat.

The sharp metal stings,drawing blood. When I pull

myhandbackfrommyear,Ican see the crimson stain onmy fingers. This is who youare.

I lookback to the tunnel,hoping to seehisgreen eyes,but the darkness seems toswallow the tunnel whole,hidinghimandalltheothers.

“Areyoureadyfor this?”Farley breathes, lookingbetweenusboth.

Maven answers for me,

hisvoicefirm.“Weare.”But Farley isn’t satisfied.

“Mare?”“I’mready.”The revolutionary takes a

calmingbreathbeforetappingher foot against the side ofthe drain. Once, twice, threetimes. Together, we turn tothe Bridge, waiting for theworldtochange.

There’s no traffic at thishour,noteventhewhisperof

a transport. The shops areclosed, the plazas empty.Withanyluck,theonlythinglost tonight will be concreteand steel. The last section ofthe Bridge, the oneconnecting West Archeon tothe rest of the city, seemsserene.

And then it explodes inbright plumes of orange andred, a sun to split the silverdarkness.Heatsurges,butnot

fromthebombs—it’sMaven.The explosion sparkssomethinginhim,lightinghisflame.

The sound rumbles,almost knocking me off myfeet, and the river belowchurns as the end section ofthe Bridge collapses. Itgroans and shudders like adying beast, crumbling in onitself as it detaches from thebank and the rest of the

structure.Concretepillarsandsteel wire crack and snap,splashing into the water oragainst the bank. A cloud ofdust and smoke rises, cuttingoff the rest of Archeon fromview.BeforetheBridgeevenhits the water, alarms soundovertheSquare.

Above us, patrols runalongthewall,eager togetagood look at the destruction.They shout to one another,

notknowingwhattomakeofthis. Most can only stare. Inthebarracks, lightsswitchonand soldiers stir, all fivethousandofthemjumpingoutof bed.Cal’s soldiers. Cal’slegion. And with any luck,ours.

Ican’ttearmyeyesawayfrom the flame and smoke,but Maven does it for me.“There he is,” he hisses,pointing tosomedarkshapes

runningfromthepalace.He has his own guards,

but Cal outstrips them all,sprinting for the barracks.He’s still in his nightclothes,but he’s never looked sofearsome. As soldiers andofficers spill out into theSquare, he barks orders,somehow making himselfheard over the growingcrowd. “Guns on the gates!Putnymphsontheotherside,

we don’t want the firespreading!”

His men carry out theorderswithspeed,jumpingathiseveryword.Legionsobeytheirgenerals.

Behindus,Farleypressesherselfbackagainst thewall,inching closer to her drain.She’llturnandrunatthefirstsign of trouble, disappearingto fight another day. Thatwon’thappen.Thiswillwork.

Mavenmoves to go first,towavedownhisbrother,butIpushhimback.

“I have to do it,” Iwhisper,feelingastrangesortof calm come over me. Hewillalwayschooseyou.

I’m past the point of noreturn when I step into theSquare, into full view of thelegion and the patrols andCal. Spotlights blaze to lifeonthetopsofthewalls,some

pointed at the Bridge, othersdownonus.Oneseemstogoright throughme, and I haveto raise a hand to shield myeyes.

“Cal!” I scream over thedeafening sound of fivethousand soldiers. Somehow,he hears me, his headsnappinginmydirection.Welockeyesthroughthemassofsoldiers falling into theirpracticedlinesandregiments.

When he moves towardme,pushingthroughthesea,Ithink Imight faint. SuddenlyallIcanhear ismyheartbeatpounding in my ears,drowning out the alarms andthe screams. I am afraid. Soveryafraid.ThisisjustCal,Itell myself. The boy wholoves music and cycles. Notthe soldier, not the general,not the prince. The boy. Hewillalwayschooseyou.

“Go back inside, now!”Hetowersoverme,usingthestern, regal voice that couldmake a mountain bow.“Mare,it’snotsafe—!”

With strength I neverknew I had, I grab on to thecollar of his shirt andsomehow it keeps him still.“Whatifthatwasthecost?”Itoss a glance back to thebrokenBridge,nowshroudedin smoke and ash. “Nothing

but a few tons of concrete.What if I told you that righthere,rightnow,youcouldfixeverything. You could saveus.”

Bytheflickerinhiseyes,IcanseeIhavehisattention.“Don’t,” he protests weakly,one hand grabbing mine.There’sfearinhiseyes,morefearthanI’veeverseen.

“Yousaidyoubelievedinus once, in freedom. In

equality. You can make thatreal, with one word. Therewon’t be awar.No onewilldie.”Heseemsfrozenbymywords,notdaringtobreathe.Ican’t tell what he’s thinking,but I press on. I must makehim understand. “You holdthe power right now. Thisarmy is yours, this wholeplace is yours to take and—and to free! March into thepalace, make your father

kneel,anddowhatyouknowisright.Please,Cal!”

Icanfeelhimbeneathmyhands, his breath coming inquick pants, and nothing hasever felt so real or soimportant. I know what he’sthinkingabout—hiskingdom,his duty, his father.Andme,thelittlelightninggirl,askinghim to throw it all away.Something deep down tellsmehewill.

Shaking, I press a kiss tohis lips. He will choose me.His skin feels cold undermine,likeacorpse.

“Choose me,” I breatheagainst him. “Choose a newworld.Make a better world.The soldiers will obey you.Your father will obey you.”Myheartclenches,andeverymuscle tightens, waiting forhis answer. The spotlight onusflickersundermystrength,

switching on and off withevery heartbeat. “It was mybloodinthecells.IhelpedtheGuard escape. And sooneveryone will know—andthey will kill me. Don’t letthem.Saveme.”

The words stir him, andhisgriponmywristtightens.

“Itwasalwaysyou.”He will always choose

you.“Greet the new dawn,

Cal.Withme.Withus.”His eyes shift to Maven

nowwalking toward us. Thebrothers lock eyes, speakingin a way I don’t understand.Hewillchooseus.

“It was always you,” hesaysagain,raggedandruinedthis time. His voice carriesthepainofathousanddeaths,a thousand betrayals.Anyonecan betray anyone, Iremember. “The escape, the

shooting, the power outages.Itallstartedwithyou.”

I try to explain, stillpulling back. But he has nointentionoflettingmego.

“How many people haveyou killed with your dawn?How many children, howmany innocents?” His handgrows hot, hot enough toburn. “How many peoplehaveyoubetrayed?”

My knees buckle,

droppingout fromunderme,butCaldoesn’tletgo.Dimly,I hear Maven yellingsomewhere, the princecharging in to save hisprincess. But I’m not aprincess.I’mnotthegirlwhogetssaved.AsthefirerisesinCal, flamingbehindhiseyes,the lightning streaks throughme, fed by anger. It shocksbetween us, throwing meback from Cal. My mind

buzzes, clouded by sorrowandangerandelectricity.

Behind me, Maven yells.I turn just in time to seehimshouting back at Farley,gesturing wildly with hishands.“Run!Run!”

Cal jumps to his feetfaster than me, shoutingsomethingtohissoldiers.Hiseyes follow Maven’s call,connecting thedotsasonlyageneralcan.“Thedrains!”he

roars, still staring at me.“They’reinthedrains.”

Farley’s shadowdisappears, trying to escapewhile gunfire follows her.SoldiersdartovertheSquare,ripping away grates anddrainsandpipes,exposingthesystem beneath. They pourintothetunnelslikeaterribleflood. I want to cover myears,toblockoutthescreamsandbulletsandblood.

Kilorn. His name fluttersweakly in my thoughts, nomore than a whisper. I can’tthinkabouthimlong;Calstillstands over me, his wholebodyshaking.Buthedoesn’tfrighten me. I don’t thinkanything can scare me now.The worst has happenedalready.Wehavelost.

“How many?” I screamback at him, finding thestrength to face him. “How

many starved? How manymurdered? How manychildren taken away to die?Howmany,myprince?”

I thought I knew hatebefore today. I was wrong.About myself, about Cal,about everything. The painmakes my head spin, butsomehow I keep my feet,somehowIkeepmyselffromfalling.Hewill never chooseme.

“My brother, Kilorn’sfather,Tristan,Walsh!”Whatfeels like a hundred namesexplode fromme, rattlingoffall the lost ones. TheymeannothingtoCalbuteverythingtome.And I know there arethousands, millions more. Amillionforgottenwrongs.

Caldoesn’tanswer,andIexpect to see the rage I feelreflected inhiseyes. Instead,Iseenothingbutsadness.He

whispersagain,andthewordsmake me want to fall downandnevergetupagain.

“I wish things weredifferent.”

I expect the sparks, Iexpect lightning, but it nevercomes. When I feel coldhands onmyneck andmetalshackles on my wrists, Iknowwhy. Instructor Arven,the silence, the onewho canmake us human, stands

behindme, pushingdownallmystrengthuntilI’mnothingbutaweepinggirlagain.He’staken it all away, all thestrength and all the power Ithought I had. I have lost.Whenmykneesgiveout thistime, there’s no one to holdme up.Dimly, I hearMavencry out before he too ispushedtotheground.

“Brother!” he roars,trying to make Cal see what

he’s doing. “They’ll kill her!They’ll kill me!” But Cal isno longer listening to us.Hespeakstooneofhiscaptains,andIdon’tbothertolistentothewords.Icouldn’tevenifIwantedto.

The ground beneath meseems to shake with everyroundofgunfiredeepbelow.How much blood will stainthetunnelstonight?

Myheadistooheavy,my

body too weak, and I letmyselfslumpagainstthetiledground. It feels cold undermy cheek, soothing andsmooth. Maven pitchesforward, his head landingnext to me. I remember amoment like this. Gisa’sscream and the shattering ofbones echo faintly, a ghostinsidemyhead.

“Take them inside, to theking. He will judge them

both.”I don’t recognize Cal’s

voice anymore. I’ve turnedhim into a monster. I forcedhishand.Imadehimchoose.Iwaseager,Iwasstupid.Iletmyselfhope.

Iamafool.The sun begins to rise

behind Cal’s head, framinghimagainstthedawn.It’stoobright, too sharp, and toosoon;Ihavetoshutmyeyes.

TWENTY-SIX

Icanbarelykeepupthepace,but the soldier at my back,holding my shackled arms,keeps shoving. Another doesthe same to Maven, forcinghim along with me. Arvenfollows us, making sure wecan’t escape.His presence isa dark weight, dulling mysenses. I can still see the

passagearoundus,emptyandfar from the prying eyes ofthecourt,butIdon’thavethestrengthtocare.Calleadsthepack,his shoulders tenseandtight as he fights the urge tolookback.

The soundofgunfireandscreams and blood in thetunnels rumbles inmymind.Theyaredead.Wearedead.Itisover.

Iexpectustodescend, to

march down to the darkestcellintheworld.Instead,Calleadsusup,toaroomwithnowindows and no Sentinels.Ourfootfallsdon’tevenechoasweenter—soundproof.Noone can hear us. And thatfrightens me more than theguns or the fire or the purerageripplingofftheking.

Hestandsinthecenterofthe room,dressed inhisowngilded armor with the crown

on his head. His ceremonialswordhangsathissideagain,along with a pistol he’sprobablyneverused.Allpartof the pageant. At least helooksthepart.

Thequeenishereaswell,waiting for us in nothing buta thin white gown. Themoment we enter, her eyesmeetmineandsheforcesherway into my thoughts like aknife through flesh. I yelp,

trying toclutchmyhead,buttheshacklesholdfirm.

It all flashes before myeyes again, from thebeginning to the end. Will’swagon. The Guard. Kilorn.The riots, the meetings, thesecret messages. Maven’sface swirls in the memories,makinghimstandoutagainstthefray,butElarapusheshimaway.Shedoesn’twanttoseewhat I remember about him.

My brain screams at theonslaught, jumping fromthought to thought until mywhole life, every kiss andevery secret, is laid barebeforeher.

When she stops, I feeldead. I want to be dead. Atleast I won’t have long towait.

“Leave us,” Elara says,her voice cutting and sharp.The soldierswait, looking to

Cal.Whenhenods,theytaketheirleave,departinginadinof clicking boots. But Arvenstays behind, his influencestill pressing down on me.When the march of bootsfades away, the king allowshimselftoexhale.

“Son?” He looks at Cal,and I can see the slightestquiver in his fingers. Butwhathecouldpossiblyfear,Idonotknow.“Iwant tohear

thisfromyou.”“They’vebeenpartofthis

foralongtime,”Calmutters,barely able to say thewords.“Sinceshecamehere.”

“Both?” Tiberias turnsaway from Cal, to hisforgotten son. He looksalmost sad, his face pullingintoapainedfrown.Hiseyeswaver, reluctant to hold hisgaze, but Maven stares rightback.Hewillnotflinch.“You

knewaboutthis,myboy?”Maven nods. “I helped

planit.”Tiberiasstumbles,likehis

words are a physical blow.“Andtheshooting?”

“I chose the targets.”Calsqueezes his eyes shut, likehecanblockthisallout.

Maven’s eyes slide pasthis father, to Elara, whostands close by. They holdeach other’s gaze, and for a

moment,Ithinkshe’slookingintohisthoughts.Withajolt,Irealizeshewon’t.Shecan’tletherselflook.

“You told me to find acause,Father.AndIdid.Areyouproudofme?”

But Tiberias rounds onme instead, snarling like abear. “You did this! Youpoisoned him, you poisonedmy boy!”When tears springtohiseyes,Iknowtheking’s

heart,nomatterhowsmallorcold, has been broken. HelovesMaven,inhisownway.But it’s too late for that.“You’ve taken my son fromme!”

“You have done thatyourself,” I say throughgritted teeth. “Maven has hisownheart,andhebelievesinadifferentworldasmuchasIdo. If anything, your sonchangedme.”

“Idon’tbelieveyou.Youhavetrickedhimsomehow.”

“Shedoesnotlie.”Hearing Elara agree with

meripsmybreathaway.“Our son has always

thirstedforchange.”Hereyeslingeronherson.Shesoundsafraid. “He is just a boy,Tiberias.”

Savehim, I screamout inmy head. Shemust hearme.Shemust.

Next tome,Mavensucksin a breath,waiting forwhatcouldbeourdoom.

Tiberias looks at his feet,knowing the laws better thananyoneelse,butCalisstrongenough tomeet his brother’sgaze. I can see himremembering their lifetogether.Flame and shadow.One cannot exist without theother.

After a long moment of

hot, stifling silence, the kingputs a hand on Cal’sshoulder. His head shakesback and forth, and tearstrackdownhischeeksintohisbeard.

“Aboyornot,Mavenhaskilled. Together with this—this snake”—he points ashaking finger at me—“hehas committed grave crimesagainst his own.Againstme,and against you.Against our

throne.”“Father—” Cal moves

quickly, putting himselfbetweenthekingandus.“Heis your son. There must beanotherway.”

Tiberias stills, puttingaside the father to becomeking again. He wipes awayhis tears with a brush of thehand. “When you wear mycrown,youwillunderstand.”

The queen’s eyes narrow

into blue slits. Her eyes,they’rethesameasMaven’s.

“Fortunately, that willnever happen,” she saysplainly.

“What?”Tiberias turns toher but stops halfway, hisbodyfrozeninplace.

I’ve seen this before. Inthearena,longago,whenthewhisper beat the strongarm.Elara even did it to me,turning me into a puppet.

Again,sheholdsthestrings.“Elara, what are you

doing?” he hisses throughgrittedteeth.

She replies with words Icannothear,speakingintotheking’s head. He doesn’t likeher answer at all. “No!” heyellsassheforceshimtohiskneeswithherwhispers.

Cal bristles, his fistsexploding into flame, butElara holds a hand out,

stopping him in his tracks.Shehasthemboth.

Tiberias struggles, histeeth clenched, but can’tmove an inch.He can barelyeven speak. “Elara. Arven—!”

But my old instructordoesn’t move. Instead, hestands quietly, content towatch. It seems his loyaltieslienotwiththekingbutwiththequeen.

She’s saving us. For herson’slife,she’sgoingtosaveus.WebetonCal lovingmeenough to change the world;we should’ve looked to thequeen instead. I want tolaugh, to smile, butsomethinginCal’sfacekeepsmyreliefatbay.

“Julian warned me,” Calgrowls, still trying to breakher hold. “I thought he waslying about you, about my

mother,aboutwhatyoudidtoher.”

On his knees, the kinghowls.Itisawretchedsound,one I never want to hearagain. “Coriane,” he moans,staring at the floor. “Julianknew. Sara knew. Youpunishedherforthetruth.”

Sweat beads on Elara’sforehead.Shecannotholdthekingand theprinceformuchlonger.

“Elara, you have to getMavenoutofhere,”Itellher.“Don’t worry about me, justkeephimsafe.”

“Oh, don’t you fret, littlelightning girl,” she sneers. “Idon’t think about you at all.Though your loyalty to mysonisquiteinspiring.Isn’tit,Maven?”She tossesaglanceover her shoulder to her son,stillshackled.

Inresponse,hisarmssnap

out, pulling apart the metalshackles with shocking ease.They melt off his wrists inglobs of hot iron, burningholes in the floor. When herises tohisfeet, Iexpecthimtodefendme,tosavemelikeI’mtryingtosavehim.ThenIrealizeArvenstillhasholdofme, and the familiar feel ofsparks, of electricity, has notreturned. He’s still holdingme back, even though he let

Mavengo.When Cal’s eyes meet

mine, I knowhe understandsmuchbetterthanIdo.Anyonecan betray anyone echoeslouder and louder, until ithowls in my ears like thewindsofahurricane.

“Maven?” I have to lookup to see his face, and for asecond, I don’t recognizehim.He’s still the sameboy,the one who comforted me,

kissed me, kept me strong.My friend. More than myfriend. But something iswronginhim.Somethinghaschanged. “Maven, help meup.”

He rolls his shoulders,cracking the bones to chaseaway an ache. His motionsare sluggish and strange, andwhen he settles back on hisfeet,handsonhiships, I feellike I’m seeing him for the

first time. His eyes are socold.

“No,Idon’tthinkso.”“What?” I hearmy voice

like it’s coming fromsomeone else. I sound like alittle girl. I am just a littlegirl.

Mavendoesn’tanswerbutholds my gaze. The boy Iknow is still there, hiding,flickeringbehindhiseyes.IfIcan just reach him—but

Mavenmovesfasterthanme,pushing me away when Ireachout.

“CAPTAIN TYROS!”Cal roars, still able to speak.Elarahasnot taken that fromhim yet. But no one comesrunning.Noonecanhearus.“CAPTAIN TYROS!” heyells again, pleadingwith noone. “EVANGELINE!PTOLEMUS, SOMEONE,HELP!”

Elaraiscontenttolethimshout,enjoyingthesound,butMavenflinches.“Dowehavetolistentothis?”heasks.

“No,Isupposewedon’t,”she sighs, tipping her head.Cal’s body moves with herthoughts, shifting to face hisfather.

Cal panics, his eyesgrowingwide.“Whatareyoudoing?”

Beneath him, the king’s

face darkens. “Isn’t itobvious?”

I don’t understand at all.I don’t belong here. Julianwas right. This is a game Idon’t understand, a game Idon’t know how to play. IwishJulianwereherenow,toexplain, to help, to save me.Butnooneiscoming.

“Maven, please,” I plead,trying to make him look atme. But he turns his back,

focusing on his mother andhis betrayed blood.He is hismother’sson.

She didn’t care that hewas in my memories. Shedidn’tcarethathewaspartofall this.Shedidn’t even looksurprised. The answer isfrighteninglysimple.Becauseshealreadyknew.Becauseheis her son. Because this washer plan all along. Thethought stings like knives

running along skin, but thepainonlymakesitmorereal.

“Youusedme.”Finally, Maven

condescends to look back atme.“Catchingon,areyou?”

“You chose the targets.The colonel, Reynald,Belicos,evenPtolemus—theyweren’t theGuard’senemies,they were yours.” I want totear him apart, lightning ornot.Iwanttomakehimhurt.

I am finally learning mylesson. Anyone can betrayanyone.

“And this, this was justanother plot.Youpushedmeinto this, even though it wasimpossible, even though youknewCalwouldneverbetrayhis father! You made mebelieveit.Youmadeallofusbelieveit.”

“It’s not my fault youwere stupid enough to play

along,” he replies. “Now theGuardisfinished.”

It feels like a kick in theteeth. “They were yourfriends.Theytrustedyou.”

“Theywereathreattomykingdom, and they werestupid,” he fires back. Hestoops,bendingovermewithhistwistedsmile.“Were.”

Elara laughs at his crueljoke. “Itwas tooeasy to slipyou into their midst. One

sentimental servantwasall ittook.Howsuchfoolsbecameadanger,I’llneverknow.”

“Youmademebelieve,”Iwhisper again, rememberingevery lie he ever toldme. “Ithought you wanted to helpus.” It comesoutawhimper.For a split second, his palefeaturessoften.Butitdoesn’tlast.

“Foolishgirl,”Elarasays.“Your idiocywas almost our

ruin. Using your own guardin the escape, causing all theoutages—do you really thinkI was so stupid as to missyourtracks?”

Numb, I shake my head.“Youletmedoit.Youknewaboutitall.”

“Of course I knew. Howelse do you think you cameso far? I had to cover yourtracks, I had to protect youfrom anyone with enough

sense to see the signs,” shesnarls, growling like a beast.“YoudonotknowthelengthsI went to keep you fromharm.” She flushes withpleasure, enjoying everysecond of this. “But you areRed, and like all the others,youweredoomedtofail.”

It breaks against me,memoriesfallingintoplace.Ishould’veknown,deepdown,not to trust Maven. He was

too perfect, too brave, tookind. He turned his back onhisowntojointheGuard.Hepushed me at Cal. He gaveme exactly what I wanted,anditmademeblind.

Wanting to scream,wanting to weep, I let myeyes trail toElara. “You toldhim exactly what to say,” Iwhisper. She doesn’t have tonod, but I know I’m right.“YouknowwhoIaminhere,

and you knew”—my headaches, remembering how sheplayedinsidemymind—“youknewexactlyhow towinmeover.”

Nothing hurts moredeeply than the hollow lookonMaven’sface.

“Wasanythingtrue?”Whenheshakeshishead,

Iknowthatisalsoalie.“EvenThomas?”Theboy at thewar front,

the boy who died fightingsomeone else’s war. HisnamewasThomasand I sawhimdie.

The name punchesthrough his mask, crackingthe facade of coolindifference,butisn’tenough.He shrugs off the name andthe pain it causes him.“Anotherdeadboy.Hemakesnodifference.”

“He makes all the

difference,” I whisper tomyself.

“I think it’s time to sayyour good-byes, Maven,”Elara cuts in, putting awhitehand on her son’s shoulder.I’ve struck too close to hisweak spot, and shewon’t letmepushfurther.

“I have none,” hewhispers, turning back to hisfather. His blue eyes waver,looking at the crown, the

sword, the armor, anywherebut his father’s face. “Younever looked at me. Youneversawme.Notwhenyouhad him.” He jerks his headtowardCal.

“You know that’s nottrue,Maven.Youaremyson.Nothingwillchangethat.Noteven her,” Tiberias says,casting a glance at Elara.“Notevenwhatshe’sabouttodo.”

“Dearest, I’m not doinganything,” she chirps back.“Butyourbelovedboy”—sheslaps Cal across the face—“the perfect heir”—sheslaps him again, harder thistime—“Coriane’s son.”Another slap draws blood,splitting his lip. “I cannotspeakforhim.”

Thick silverblood dripsdown Cal’s chin. Maven’seyes lingeron theblood,and

theslightestfrownpullsathisfeatures.

“Wehadasontoo,Tibe,”Elara whispers, her voiceraggedwithrageassheturnsback to the king. “Nomatterhow you felt about me, youweresupposedtolovehim.”

“I did!” he shouts,straining against her mentalhold.“Ido.”

Iknowwhatit’sliketobecast aside, to stand in

another’s shadow. But thiskindofanger,thismurderous,destructive, terrible scene isbeyond my comprehension.Maven loves his father, hisbrother—how can he let herdo this? How can he wantthis?

But he stands still,watching,andIcan’tfindthewordstomakehimmove.

Nothing prepares me forwhat comes next, for what

Elara forces her puppets todo. Cal’s hand shakes,reaching forward, pushedalongbyherwill.He tries toresist, struggling with everyounceof strengthhehas, butit’snouse.Thisisabattlehedoes not know how to fight.Whenhishandclosesaroundthe gilded sword, pulling itfromthesheathathisfather’swaist, the last piece of thepuzzle slips intoplace.Tears

course down his face,steaming against burning-hotskin.

“It’s not you,” Tiberiassays, his eyes on Cal’swretched face. He doesn’tbotherpleadingforhislife.“Iknow it’s not you, son. Thisisnotyourfault.”

No one deserves this.Noone. Inmy head, I reach forthe lightning, and it comes. Iblast awayElara andMaven,

saving the prince and theking.Buteventhatfantasyistainted.Farleyisdead.Kilornis dead. The revolution isover.Eveninmyimaginings,Icannotfixthat.

Theswordrisesintheair,shaking in Cal’s tremblingfingers. The blade isceremonial at best, but theedgegleams,sharpasarazor.The steel reddens, warmingunder Cal’s fiery touch, and

bits of the gilded hilt meltbetweenhisfingers.Goldandsilverandiron,drippingfromhishandsliketears.

Mavenwatches the bladeclosely, carefully,becauseheis too afraid to watch hisfather in his last moments. Ithought you were brave. Iwassowrong.

“Please,” is all Cal cansay, forcing the words out.“Please.”

There is no regret inElara’s eyes and no remorse.This moment has beencomingforalongtime.Whenthe sword flashes, arcingthrough air and flesh andbone,shedoesn’tblink.

The king’s corpse landswith a thud, his head rollingto a stop a few feet away.Silverblood splashes acrossthe floor in a mirroredpuddle, lappingatCal’s toes.

He drops the melting sword,letting it clang against stone,beforefallingtohisknees,hisheadinhishands.Thecrownclatters across the floor,circling through the blood,until it stops to rest atMaven’s feet, sharp pointsbrightwithliquidsilver.

When Elara screams,wailing and thrashing overthe king’s body, I almostlaugh aloud at the absurdity

ofitall.Hasshechangedhermind? Has she lost itentirely?ThenIheartheclickof cameras switching on,coming back to life. Theypoke out of the walls,pointing straight down at theking’s body and what lookslike a queen mourning herfallen husband. Maven yellsat her side, one hand on hismother’sshoulder.

“You killed him! You

killed the king! You killedour father!” he screams inCal’s face. Only a hint of asmirk remains, and somehowCal resists theurge to riphisbrother’s head off. He’s inshock,notunderstanding,notwanting to understand. Butforonce,Icertainlydo.

The truth doesn’t matter.It only matters what thepeoplebelieve. Julian tried toteach me that lesson before,

andnowIunderstandit.Theywill believe this little scene,thisprettyplayofactorsandlies.Andnoarmy,nocountrywill follow a man whomurdered his father for thecrown.

“Run, Cal!” I scream,trying to snap him back tolife.“Youhavetorun!”

Arvenhas letmego, andthe electric pulse returns,surgingthroughmyveinslike

fire through ice. It’s nothingat all to shock the metal,burning it with sparks untilthe shackles fall off mywrists. I know this feeling. Iknowtheinstinctrisinginmenow.Run.Run.Run.

I grab Cal’s shoulders,tryingtopullhimup,but thebigoafdoesn’t budge. I givehimalittleshock,justenoughto catch his attention, beforescreamingagain.“RUN!”

It’s enough, and hestruggles to his feet, almostslippinginthepoolofblood.

IexpectElaratofightme,to make me kill myself orCal, but she continuesscreaming, acting for thecameras. Maven stands overher, arms ablaze, ready toprotect his mother. Hedoesn’teventrytostopus.

“There’snowhereforyouto go!” he shouts, but I’m

alreadyrunning,draggingCalalong behind me. “You aremurderers, traitors, and youwillfacejustice!”

His voice, a voice I usedto know so well, seems tochase us through the doorsanddownthehall.Thevoicesinmyheadscreamwithhim.

Stupid girl. Foolish girl.Look what your hope hasdone.

And then it’s Cal

dragging me along, forcingme to keep up. Hot tears ofanger and rage and sorrowdrownmy eyes, until I can’tsee anything butmy hand inhis. Where he leads, I don’tknow.Icanonlyfollow.

Feetpoundbehindus,thefamiliar sound of boots.Officers, Sentinels, soldiers,they’re all chasing, comingforus.

The floor beneath us

steadily changes from thepolished wood of backhallways to swirling marble—the banquet hall. Longtables set with fine chinablocktheway,butCalthrowsthem aside with a blast offire. The smoke triggers analarmsystem,andwaterrainsdown on us, fighting theblaze. It turns to steam onCal’sskin,shroudinghiminaragingwhite cloud.He looks

likeaghost,hauntedbyalifesuddenly torn away, and Idon’t know how to comforthim.

The world slows for meas the far endof thebanquethall darkens with grayuniforms and black guns.There’s nowhere for me torunanymore.Imustfight.

Lightning blazes in myskin,beggingtobeloosed.

“No.” Cal’s voice is

hollow,broken.Helowershisownhands, lettingtheflamesdisappear. “We can’t winthis.”

He’sright.They close in from the

many doors and arches, andeventhewindowscrowdwithuniforms. Hundreds ofSilvers, armed to the teeth,readytokill.Wearetrapped.

Calsearchesthefaces,hiseyeslingeringonthesoldiers.

His own men. By the waythey stare back, glaring athim, I know they’ve alreadyseenthehorrorElaracreated.Their loyalties are broken,justliketheirgeneral.Oneofthem, a captain, trembles atthe sight of Cal. To mysurprise, he keeps his gun athissideashestepsforward.

“Submit to arrest,” hesays,hishandsshaking.

Cal locks eyes with his

old friend and nods. “Wesubmit to arrest, CaptainTyros.”

Run, every inch of mescreams. But for once, Icannot.Nexttome,Callooksjust as affected, his eyesreflecting apain I can’t evenimagine. His wounds aresoul-deep.

Hehas learnedhis lessonaswell.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Maven has betrayedme.No,he was never on my side atall.

My eyes adjust, seeingbars through the dim light.Theceilingislowandheavy,liketheundergroundair.I’veneverbeenherebefore, but Iknowitallthesame.

“The Bowl of Bones,” I

whisper aloud, expecting noonetohearme.

Instead,someonelaughs.Thedarknesscontinuesto

lift, revealing more of thecell. A lumpy shape sitsagainst the bars next to me,shifting with every peal oflaughter.

“Iwas four years old thefirst time I came here, andMaven was barely two. Hehid behind his mother’s

skirts, afraid of the darknessand the empty cells.” Calchuckles,everywordsharpasa knife. “I guess he’s notafraidofthedarkanymore.”

“No,he’snot.”I’m the shadow of the

flame. I believed Mavenwhen he said those words,when he told me how muchhe hated this world. Now Iknow it was all a trick, amasterful trick. Every word,

everytouch,everylookwasalie. And I thought I was theliar.

Instinctively I reach outwithmy abilities, feeling forany pulse of electricity,somethingtogivemeasparkof energy. But there’snothing.Nothingbutablank,flat absence, a hollowsensation that makes meshiver.

“Is Arven nearby?” I

wonder,rememberinghowheshut off my abilities, forcingme to watch as Maven andhis mother destroyed theirfamily.“Ican’tfeelathing.”

“It’s the cells,” Cal saysdully.Hishandsdrawshapesin the dirty floor—flames.“MadeofSilentStone.Don’taskmetoexplainit,becauseIcan’t, and I don’t feel liketrying.”

He looksup,eyesglaring

through the darkness at theunending line of cells. Ishould be afraid, but I havenothinglefttofear.Theworsthasalreadyhappened.

“Beforethematches,backwhenwe still had to executeour own, the Bowl of Boneshosted everythingnightmaresare made of. The GreatGreco,whoused to tearmenin half and eat their livers.ThePoisonBride.Shewasan

animos of House Viper andsent snakes into my great-great-uncle’s bed on theirwedding night. They say hisblood turned to venom, hewas bitten so many times.”Cal lists them off, thecriminals of his world. Theysound likes stories inventedto make children behave.“Now,us.TheTraitorPrince,they’llcallme.‘Hekilledhisfather for the crown.He just

couldn’twait.’”Ican’thelpbutaddtothe

tale.“‘Thebitchmadehimdoit,’ they’ll gossip to eachother.” I can see it in myhead, shoutedonevery streetcorner, from every videoscreen. “They’ll blame me,thelittlelightninggirl.Ifilledyour thoughts with poison, Icorruptedyou.Imadeyoudoit.”

“You almost did,” he

murmurs back. “I almostchoseyouthismorning.”

Was it just thismorning?That cannot be true. I pushmyself up against the bars,leaningjustinchesawayfromCal.

“They’regoingtokillus.”Cal nods, laughing again.

I’ve heard him laugh before,at me every time I tried todance, but this sound is notthesame.Hiswarmthisgone,

leavingnothingbehind.“The king will see to it.

Wewillbeexecuted.”Execution. I’m not

surprised,notintheleast.“How will they do it?” I

can barely remember the lastexecution. Only imagesremain: silverblood on sand,the roar of a crowd. And Iremember the gallows athome, rope swinging in aharshwind.

Cal’s shoulders tense.“There are many ways.Together,oneata time,withswordsorgunsorabilitiesorall three.” He heaves a sigh,already resigned to his fate.“They’llmake it hurt. Itwillnotbequick.”

“MaybeI’llbleedallovertheplace.That’llgivetherestof the world something tothink about.” The bleakthought makes me smile.

When I die, I’ll be plantingmyownredflag,splashingitacross the sands of themassive arena. “Hewon’t beable to hide me then.Everyone will know what Ireallyam.”

“You think that willchangeanything?”

It must. Farley has thelist, Farley will find theothers...butFarleyisdead.I can only hope she passed

the message on, to someonestillalive.Theothersarestillout there, and they must befound. They must carry on,becauseInolongercan.

“I think it won’t,” Calcontinues,hisvoicefillingthesilence.“Ithinkhe’lluseitasanexcuse.Therewillbemoreconscriptions, more laws,more labor camps. Hismother will invent anothermarvelous lie, and the world

will keep on turning, thesameasbefore.”

No. Never the sameagain.

“He’ll look formore likeme,” I realize aloud. I’vealready fallen, I’ve alreadylost, I’m already dead. Andthis is the last nail in thecoffin. My head drops intomy hands, feeling my sharp,clever fingers curl into myhair.

Calshiftsagainstthebars,hisweight sendingvibrationsthroughthemetal.“What?”

“There are others. Julianfigured it out. He told mehowtofindthem,and—”Myvoice breaks, not wanting tocontinue.“AndI toldhim.”Ifeellikescreaming.“Heusedmesoperfectly.”

Through the bars, Calturns to look at me. Eventhough his abilities are far

away, suppressed by thesewretched walls, an infernorages inhiseyes.“Howdoesit feel?” he growls, almostnose to nosewithme. “Howdoes it feel to be used,MareBarrow?”

Once, I would’ve givenanything to hear him saymyreal name, but now it stingslike a burn. I thought I wasusing them both, Maven andCal.HowstupidIwas.

“I’msorry,”Iforceout.Idespise those words, butthey’re all I can give. “I’mnot Maven, Cal. I didn’t dothis to hurt you. I neverwanted to hurt you.” Andsofter, barely audible, “Itwasn’tallalie.”

His head thunks backagainst the bars, so loud itmust hurt, but Cal doesn’tseemtonotice.Likeme,he’slost theability tofeelpainor

fear.Toomuchhashappened.“Do you think he’ll kill

my parents?” My sister, mybrothers.Foronce,I’mhappyShade is dead and out ofMaven’sreach.

I feel surprising warmthbleedagainstme,settlingintomy shivering bones. Cal hasmoved again, leaning againstthebarsrightbehindme.Hisheat is gentle, natural—notdrivenbyangerorability.It’s

human. I can feel himbreathing,hisheartbeating.Ithammers like a drum as hefindsthestrengthtolietome.“I think he has moreimportant things to thinkabout.”

I know he can feel mecrying,myshouldersshakingwitheverysob,buthedoesn’tsay anything. There are nowords for this. But he staysright there, my last bit of

warmth inaworld turning todust. I weep for them all.Farley, Tristan, Walsh, Will.Shade, Bree, Tramy, Gisa,Mom, andDad.Fighters, allof them. And Kilorn. Icouldn’t save him, nomatterhowhardItried.Ican’tevensavemyself.

At least I have myearrings. The little specks,sharp in my skin, will staywith me until the end. I die

withthem,andtheywithme.Westaylikethatforwhat

must be hours, thoughnothing changes to mark thepassing time. I evendozeoffonce, before a familiar voicemakesmejerkawake.

“In another life, I mightbejealous.”

Maven’s words sendshivers down my spine andnotinagoodway.

Cal jumps to his feet

quicker than I thoughtpossible and throws himselfat thebars,making themetalsing. But the bars hold firm,and Maven, cunning,disgusting, awful Maven, isjust out of reach. To mydelight,hestillflinchesaway.

“Save your strength,brother,” he says, teethclicking together with everyword. “You will need itsoon.”

Though he wears nocrown,Mavenalready standswiththeairofaterribleking.Hisdressuniformiscrowdedwith newmedals. Theywerehis father’s once; I’msurprised they aren’t stillcovered in blood. He lookseven paler than before,though thedarkcirclesunderhis eyes are gone. Murderhelpshimsleep.

“Will it be you in the

arena?” Cal snarls throughthe bars, his hands tight onthe iron. “Will you do ityourself? Do you even havethenerve?”

Ican’tfindthestrengthtostand, as much as I want torush the bars, to tear awaymetal with my bare handsuntil the only thing I feel isMaven’s throat. I can onlywatch.

He laughs dully at his

brother’s words. “We bothknow I could never beat youwith ability,” he says,throwing back Cal’s ownadvicefromsolongago.“SoIbeatyouwithmyhead,dearbrother.”

Once, he told me Calhated to lose. Now I realizethe one playing to win wasalwaysMaven.Every breath,everywordwas in service tothisbloodyvictory.

Calgrowls lowunder hisbreath.“Mavey,”hesays,butthe nickname holds no loveanymore.“Howcouldyoudothis to Father? To me? Toher?”

“A murdered king, atraitorous prince. So muchblood,” he sneers, dancing atthe edge of Cal’s reach.“Theyweep in thestreets forour father. Or at least, theypretend to,” he adds with a

disinterested shrug. “Thefoolishwolveswaitformetostumble, and the smart onesknow I will not. HouseSamos, House Iral, they’vebeen sharpening their clawsforyears,waiting for aweakking, a compassionate king.Youknowtheydrooledatthesight of you?Think about it,Cal. Decades from now,Father would die slowly,peacefully, and you would

ascend. Married toEvangeline, a daughter ofsteel and knives, with herbrother at your side. Youwouldn’t survive thecoronation night. She woulddo what Mother did andsupplant you with her ownchild.”

“Don’t tell me you didthistoprotectadynasty,”Calscoffs, shaking his head.“Youdidthisforyourself.”

Again,Maven shrugs.Hegrins to himself with apointed, cruel smile. “Areyoureallysosurprised?PoorMavey, the second prince.The shadow of his brother’sflame. A weak thing, a littlething,doomedtostandtothesideandkneel.”

He shifts, prowling fromCal’scell tostand in frontofmine. Icanonlystareathimfrom theground, not trusting

myself to move. He evensmellscold.

“Betrothed to a girl witheyes for another, for thebrother, the prince no onecouldeverignore.”Hiswordstake on a feral edge, heavywithawildanger.Butthereistruth in them, a harsh truthI’vetriedsohardtoforget.Itmakes my skin crawl. “Youtook everything that shouldhave been mine, Cal.

Everything.”Suddenly I’m standing,

shaking violently, but stillstanding. He’s lied to us forso long, but I cannot let himlienow.

“I was never yours, andyou were never mine,Maven,” I snarl. “And notbecause of him, either. Ithought you were perfect, Ithought youwere strong andbraveandgood.Ithoughtyou

werebetterthanhim.”BetterthanCal.Thoseare

wordsMaventhoughtnoonewould ever say. He flinches,andforasecond,Icanseetheboy I used to know. A boythatdoesn’texist.

He reaches out a hand,grabbing at me between thebars. When his fingers closeover the bare skin of mywrist, I feel nothing butrepulsion.Heholdsme tight,

likeI’msomekindoflifeline.Something has snapped inhim, revealing a desperatechild, a pathetic, hopelessthing trying toholdon tohisfavoritetoy.

“Icansaveyou.”Thewordsmakemyskin

scrawl.“Your father loved you,

Maven.Youdidn’tseeit,buthedid.”

“Alie.”

“He loved you, and youkilledhim!”Thewordscomefaster, spilling like bloodfrom a vein. “Your brotherlovedyou,andyoumadehimamurderer. I—I lovedyou. Itrusted you. I needed you.AndnowI’mgoingtodieforit.”

“Iamking.Youwill liveifIwantyouto.Iwillmakeitso.”

“You mean if you lie?

One day your lies willstrangle you, King Maven.Myonly regret is Iwon’t bealive tosee it.”And then it’smy turn to grab him. I pullwith allmy strength,makinghimstumbleagainst thebars.Myknucklesconnectwithhischeek,andheyelpsawaylikea kicked dog. “I will nevermake the mistake of lovingyoueveragain.”

To my dismay, he

recovers quickly andsmoothes his hair. “So youchoosehim?”

That’s all this ever was.Jealousy. Rivalry. All soshadow could defeat theflame.

I have to throwmy headback and laugh, feeling theeyes of the brothers on me.“Cal betrayed me, and Ibetrayed him. And youbetrayed us both, in a

thousand different ways.”Thewordsareheavyasstonebut right.Soright. “I choosenoone.”

For once, I feel like Icontrol fire and Maven hasbeen burned by it. Hestumbles back frommy cell,somehow defeated by thelittle girl without herlightning, the prisoner inchains, the human before agod.

“What will you tell themwhen I bleed?” I hiss afterhim.“Thetruth?”

He laughs deep in hischest. The little boydisappears, replaced by theking killer again. “The truthiswhat Imake it. Icouldsetthis world on fire and call itrain.”

And some will believe.Thefools.Butotherswillnot.RedandSilver,highandlow,

somewillseethetruth.His voice becomes a

snarl, his face a shadowof abeast. “Anyone who knowsthatwehidyou,anyonewithevenahintof suspicion,willbedealtwith.”

Mymindbuzzes,flyingtoeveryone who knewsomething about me wasstrange. Maven beats methere,seemingtoenjoylistingoff the many deaths. “Lady

Blonos had to go, of course.Decapitation deals nicelywithskinhealers.”

She was an old crow, anannoyance—and she didn’tdeservethis.

“The maids were easier.Pretty girls, sisters fromOldshire.Motherdid theminherself.”

Ineverevenlearnedtheirnames.

My knees hit the ground

heavily, but I barely feel it.“Theydidn’tknowanything.”But my begging is no usenow.

“Lucas will go as well,”he says, smirking with teethbright in the darkness.“You’ll get to see that foryourself.”

I feel like retching. “Youtoldmehewassafe,withhisfamily—!”

He laughs long and hard.

“When are you going torealizethateverywordoutofmymouthwasalie?”

“We forced him, JulianandI.Hedidnothingwrong.”Begging feels so awful, butit’s all I can think to do.“He’s of House Samos. Youcan’tkilloneofthem.”

“Mare, haven’t you beenpaying attention? I can doanything,” he growls. “It’s apity we couldn’t get Julian

backhereintime.Iwould’velikedtomakehimwatchyoudie.”

I do my best to chokebackasob,pressingahandtomy mouth. Next to me, Calgrowls deep in his throat,thinking of his uncle. “Youfoundhim?”

“Of course we did. Wecaptured Julian and Saraboth.” Maven laughs. “I’llsettle forkillingSkonosfirst,

finishing the job my motherbegan. You know the storythere now, don’t you, Cal?You know what my motherdid,whispering herway intoCoriane’s head, making herbrain crawl.” He drawscloser, eyes wild andfrightening.“Saraknew.Andyourfather,evenyou,refusedto believe her. You let mymotherwin.Andyou’vedoneitagain.”

Cal doesn’t respond,resting his head against thebars.Satisfiedhe’sdestroyedhis brother, Maven turns onme, pacing just beyond mycell.

“I’ll make the othersscream for you, Mare, everylast one. Not just yourparents. Not just yoursiblings.Buteverysingleonelike you. I’m going to findthem, and they will die with

you in their thoughts,knowing this is the fate youhave brought them. I am theking and you could’ve beenmyRedqueen.Nowyou arenothing.”

I don’t bother to brushawaythetearscoursingdownmy cheeks. It’s no useanymore. Maven enjoys thesightofmebrokenandsuckson his teeth like hewants totasteme.

“Good-bye, Maven.” Iwish there wasmore I couldsay, but there are no wordsfor his evil. He knows whathe is, and, worst of all, helikesit.

He dips his head, almostbowing to thepairofus.Caldoesn’t bother to look andgrips the bars instead,wearing at themetal like it’sMaven’sneck.

“Good-bye, Mare.” The

smirk is gone, and, to mysurprise, his eyes look wet.He hesitates, not wanting togo. It’s like he’s suddenlyunderstood what he’s doneandwhat’sabouttohappentoall of us. “I told you to hideyour heart once. You shouldhavelistened.”

Howdarehe.I have three older

brothers, so when I spit atMaven, my aim is perfect,

hittinghimsquareintheeye.He turns quickly, almost

running from the pair of us.Calstaresafterhimforalongtime, unable to speak. I canonlysitdown,lettingmyrageseep away again. When Calsettlesbackagainstme, therearenomorewordslefttosay.

Many things led to thisday,forallofus.Aforgottenson, a vengeful mother, abrotherwithalongshadow,a

strange mutation. Together,they’vewrittenatragedy.

In the stories, the old fairytales, a hero comes. But allmy heroes are gone or dead.Nooneiscomingforme.

It must be the nextmorning when the Sentinelsarrive, led byArven himself.With the suffocating walls,hispresencemakesitdifficultto stand, but they force me

up.“SentinelProvos,Sentinel

Viper.” Cal nods at theSentinelswhen theyopenhiscell.Theypullhimroughlytohis feet. Even now, facingdeath,Caliscalm.

Hegreetseveryguardwepass, addressing them byname.Theystareback,angryorbewilderedorboth.Akingkiller should not be so kind.The soldiers are even worse.

Hewantstostoptosaygood-bye to themproperly,buthisownmengrowhardandcoldat the sight of him. And Ithinkthathurtshimalmostasmuch as everything else.After a while, he goes quiet,losing the last bit of will hehas left. As we climb out ofthe darkness, the noise of acrowd grows steadily nearer.Faint at first, but then a dullroarrightaboveus.Thearena

isfull,andthey’rereadyforashow.

This started when I fellintotheSpiralGarden,abodymade of sparks, and now itends at the Bowl of Bones.I’llleaveasacorpse.

Arenaattendants,alldull-eyed Silvers, descend on uslike a flockofpigeons.Theypull me behind a curtain,preparing me for what’s tocome with brisk movements

and hard hands. I barely feelthem, pushing and pulling,shoving me into a cheaperversionofatrainingsuit.Thisis meant to be an insult,making me wear somethingso simple to die in, but Iprefer thescratchoffabric tothe whisper of silk. I thinkdimly of my maids. Theypainted me every day; theyknew I had something tohide.Andtheydiedforit.No

one paints me now or evenbotherstobrushawaythedirtfrom a night spent in a cell.More pageantry. Once, Iwore silk and jewels andprettysmiles,butthatdoesn’tfitMaven’slie.ARedgirlinrags is easier for them tounderstand,andtokill.

When they pull me backout again, I can see they’vedonethesameforCal.Therewill be nomedals, no armor

forhim.Buthehashisflame-makerbraceletagain.Thefireburns still, smoldering in thebroken soldier. He hasresigned himself to die, butnot before taking someonewithhim.

We hold each other’sgaze, simply because there’snowhereelsetolook.

“What are we walkinginto?” Cal finally says,tearing his eyes away from

minetofaceArven.The old man, white as

paper, looks back on hisformer students without aflicker of remorse.What didthey promise him, for hishelp? But I can already see.Thebadgeoverhisheart, thecrownmade of jet, diamond,and ruby, was Cal’s once. Idon’t doubt he was givenmuchmore.

“Youwereaprinceanda

general. In his wisdom, themerciful king has decidedyou are to at least die withglory.” He smiles as hespeaks, showing sharp littleteeth. Rat’s teeth. “A gooddeath, the kind a traitordoesn’tdeserve.

“As for the Red girl, thetrickster.” He turns hisfearsome gaze on me,focusing harder. The stiflingweightofhispowerthreatens

to drag me down. “She willhave no weapons at all anddielikethedevilsheis.”

I open my mouth toprotest, but Arven leers overme, his breath reeking ofpoison.“King’sorders.”

No weapons. I feel likescreaming. No lightning.Arvenwon’t letmego, evento die. Maven’s words echosharplyinmyhead.Nowyouare nothing. I’ll die as

nothing. They don’t need tohide my blood if they canclaimmy powerswere fakedsomehow.

Down in the cells, I wasalmosteager to stepoutontothe sand, to send my sparksinto the sky and my bloodinto the earth. Now I shakeand shiver, wanting to runaway,butmywretchedpride,the only thing I have left,won’tevenallowthat.

Cal takes my hand. Hequivers like I do, afraid todie. At least he’ll have achancetofight.

“I’ll protect you as longas I can,” he whispers. Ialmost don’t hear him overthe tramp of feet and thepatheticbeatofmyheart.

“I don’t deserve it,” Imutterback,butIsqueezehishandinthanksallthesame.Ibetrayed him, I ruined his

life,andthisishowherepaysme.

Thenextroomisthelast.It’saslopingpassage,leadingup a gentle incline to a steelgate. Sunlight dancesthrough,bleedingdowntousalongwith all the noise of afull arena. The walls distortthe sounds, transformingcheers and shouts into thehowls of a nightmare. Isuppose that’s not far from

thetruth.As we enter, I see we’re

not the only ones waiting todie.

“Lucas!”A guard holds his arm,

but Lucas still manages toglanceoverhis shoulder.Hisface is full of bruises and helooks paler than before, likehe hasn’t seen the sun indays.It’sprobablytrue.

“Mare.” Just the way he

says my name makes mecringe.He’sanotheroneI’vebetrayed, using him like IusedCal, Julian, the colonel,like I tried to useMaven. “Iwas wondering when I’d seeyouagain.”

“I’msosorry.”Igotomygraveapologizing,anditstillwon’t be enough. “They toldme you were with yourfamily,thatyouweresafe,orelse—”

“Or else what?” he asksslowly. “I’m nothing to you.Justsomethingtobeusedandcastaside.”

Theaccusationcutslikeaknife.“I’msorry,butithadtobedone.”

“The queen made meremember.” Made. There’spain in his voice. “Don’tapologize, because you don’tmeanit.”

Iwanttoembracehim,to

show this was not what Iwanted. “I do; I swear,Lucas.”

“His Majesty, Maven ofHouse Calore and HouseMerandus,theKingofNorta,FlameoftheNorth.”Thecryrings out in the arena,echoing down to us throughthe gate. The accompanyingcheers make me cringe, andLucas flinches. His end isnear.

“Wouldyoudoitagain?”The words sting sharply.“Wouldyouriskmeforyourterrorist friends again?” Iwould.Idon’tsayitoutloud,butLucas seesmyanswer inmyeyes.“Ikeptyoursecret.”

It’sworse thanany insulthe could throw at me. Theknowledge that he protectedme, even though I didn’tdeserveit,gnawsatmycore.

“But now I know you’re

not different, not anymore,”he continues, almost spitting.“You’re the same as all therest.Heartless,selfish,cold—just like us. They taught youwell.”

Then he turns, facing thegateagain.Hewantsnomorewords fromme. Iwant togotohim,totryandexplain,buta guard holds me back.There’s nothingmore formeto do but stand tall andwait

forourdoom.“My citizens.” Maven’s

voice filters through the gatewith the daylight.He soundslike his father, like Cal, butthere’s something sharper inhisvoice.He’sonlyseventeenand already a monster. “Mypeople,mychildren.”

Calscoffsnexttome.Butout in the arena, a dead,haunting silence settles. Hehas them in the palm of his

hand.“Some would call this a

cruelty,” Maven continues. Idon’t doubt he memorized astirring speech, probablywritten by his witch of amother. “My father’sbody isbarely cold, his blood stillstains the floor, and I havebeenforcedtotakehisplace,to begin my reign in such aviolent shadow.Wehavenotexecuted our own for ten

years, and it pains me tobegin that awful traditionagain. But formy father, formy crown, for you, Imust. Iamyoung,butIamnotweak.Suchcrimes,suchevilwillbepunished.”

Up above us, high in thearena,jeersringout,cheeringfordeath.

“Lucas of House Samos,forcrimesagainst thecrown,forcollusionwiththeterrorist

organization known as theScarlet Guard, I declare youguilty. I sentence you to die.Submittoexecution.”

And then Lucas iswalkinguptheincline, tohisowndeath.Hedoesn’tspareaglance for me. Not that Ideserve one. He’s dying, notjustbecauseofwhatwemadehim do but for what I am.Like the others, he knewthere was something strange

aboutme.Andliketheothers,he will die. When hedisappears through the fargate,Ihavetoturnawayandstare at the wall. Thegunshots are hard to ignore.The crowd roars, pleased bytheviolentdisplay.

Lucas was only thebeginning, the opening act.Wearetheshow.

“Walk,” Arven says,proddinguson.Hefollowsas

webegintheslowclimb.I cannot let go of Cal’s

hand,incaseIstumble.Everymuscle in him tenses, readyfor the fight of his life. Ireachout formy lightning inone last attempt, but nothingcomes. There’s not even atremor left in me. Arven—and Maven—have taken itaway.

Throughthegate,IwatchLucas’s body be dragged

away, leaving a streak ofsilverbloodacrossthesand.Awaveof sicknesspassesoverme,andIhavetobitemylip.

With a great groan, thesteel gate shudders and risesup. The sunlight blinds mefor a second, freezing me tothe spot, but Cal pulls meforwardintothearena.

White sand, fine aspowder, slides beneath myfeet. As my eyes adjust, I

almost forget to breathe.Thearena is enormous, a widegray mouth of steel andstonework, filled withthousands of angry faces.They stare down on us indeafening silence, pouringtheirhateintomyskin.Ican’tsee any Reds at all, but Idon’t expect to. This iswhattheSilverscallentertainment,another play for them tolaughat,andtheywon’tshare

it.Video screens dot the

arena,reflectingmyownfaceback at me. Of course theymustrecordthis,tobroadcastit across thenation.To showthe world another Redbrought so low. The sightgives me pause; I look likemyself again. Ratty, tangledhair, simple clothing, dirtfallingoffmeinlittleclouds.My skin blushes with the

blood I’ve tried so long tohide.Ifdeathweren’twaitingfor me, I would probablysmile.

To my surprise, thescreens flicker, switchingfromtheimageofCalandmeto something grainy—security footage, fromall thecameras,all theelectriceyes.Withashakybreath,Irealizeexactly how deep Maven’splanreallywent.

The screens play it allback, every stolen moment.SneakingoutoftheHallwithCal, dancing together, ourwhispered conversations, ourkiss. And then the king’smurder in its full, terribleglory.Taken togetherasone,it’s not hard to believeMaven’s story. All of itconnects together, the tale oftheReddevilwho seducedaprince, whomade him kill a

king. The crowd gasps andmurmurs, eating up theperfect lie. Even my ownparents would have a hardtimedenyingthis.

“MareMollyBarrow.”Maven’svoiceboomsout

behindme,andwespintoseetheroyalfoolstaringdownatus.Hisownboxofseatsdripswith black-and-red flags,filled to the brim with lordsand ladies I recognize. They

all wear black, forgettingtheirhousecolorsinhonorofa murdered king. Sonya,Elane, andall theotherHighHousechildrenstaredownonmewithdisgust.LordSamosstands onMaven’s left, withthe queen on his right. Elarahidesbehindamourningveil,probably tomaskherwickedsmile. I expectEvangeline tobe hovering nearby, contenttomarry thenextking.After

all, she only wanted thecrown. But she’s nowhere tobeseen.Mavenhimselflookslike a dark ghost, his paleskin sharp against the blackgleam of dress armor. Heeven wears the sword theykilled the king with, and hisfather’scrownnestlesagainsthishair,gleaminginthesun.

“Oncewebelievedyoutobe the lostMareena Titanos,another murdered citizen of

my crown. With the help ofyour Red brethren, youdeceived us withtechnological tricks andruses, infiltrating my ownfamily.”Technologicaltricks.Thescreensshowmebackinthe Spiral Garden, ripplingwith electricity. In thefootage, it seems unnatural.“We gave you an education,status, power, strength—andeven our love. For that, you

repaid us with treachery,turning my own brotheragainst his blood with yourdeceit.

“We know now that youare an operative of thedefeated Scarlet Guard andare directly responsible forthe loss of countless lives.”The images flicker to thenightof theSunShooting, totheballroomfullofbloodanddeath. Farley’s flag, the

flutteringredragandthetornsun, stands out against thechaos.

“Together with mybrother, Prince Tiberias theSeventh,ofHouseCaloreandHouseJacos,youareaccusedof many violent anddeplorable offenses againstthe crown, includingdeception, treason, terrorism,andmurder.”Yourhandsarenocleanerthanmine,Maven.

“You killed the king, myfather, bewitching his ownsontodothedeed.YouareaRed devil”—he sweeps hiseyes to Cal, now almostigniting in anger—“and youare aweakman.A traitor toyour crown, your blood, andyourcolors.”Thedeathoftheking plays again, cementingMaven’stwistedwords.

“I pronounce you bothguiltyofyourcrimes.Submit

to execution.” A great jeergoes up over the arena. Itsounds like pigs screaming,howlingforblood.

The video screens flipback to Cal and me,expectingustoweeporpleadfor our lives. Neither of usmovesan inch.Theywill notgetthatfromus.

Maven stares over theside of his box, leering,waitingforoneofustosnap.

Instead, Cal salutes, twofingerstohisbrow.It’sbetterthan punching Maven in theface, and he draws back,disappointed. He looks awayfromus,tothefarsideofthearena.When I turn, I expecttoseethegunmenwhokilledLucas, but I’m greeted by averydifferentsight.

I don’t know where theycame from or when but fivefiguresappearinthedust.

“That’s not too bad,” Imurmur, squeezing Cal’shand. He’s a warrior, asoldier. Five on one mightevenbefairforhim.

ButCalfurrowshisbrow,his attention on ourexecutioners.Theycomeintosharper focus and fear rollsthrough me. I know theirnames and abilities, somemuch better than others. Allof them ripple with strength,

inarmoranduniformsmeantforwar.

A strongarm Rhambos totearmeapart,theHavensonwhowilldisappearandchokeme like a shadowed ghost,and Lord Osanos himself todrown Cal’s fire. Arven aswell, I remind myself. Hestands at the gate, his eyesneverleavingmybody.

Don’t forget the othertwo.Themagnetrons.

It’s almost poetic, really.In matching armor, withmatching scowls, Evangelineand Ptolemus stare us down,their fistsbristlingwith long,cruelknives.

Somewhereinmyhead,aclock ticks, counting down.Notmuchtimeleft.

Aboveus,Maven’svoicecroaksout.

“Letthemdie.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

The shield explodes to lifeaboveus,agiantpurpledomeofveinedglassliketheoneinthe Spiral Garden. Not toprotectus—buttoprotect thecrowd. Sparks of lightningpulse through the monstrousceiling, teasing me. WithoutArven,thelightningwouldbemine and I could fight. I

could show thisworldwho Iam.Butthatisnottobe.

Cal shifts, puttingout hisarm. The air ripples aroundhim, distorted by the wavesof heat rolling off his body.Heangleshimself towardtheothers,protectingme.

“Stay behind me as longas you can,” he says, lettinghis own heat push me back.The flamemaker sparks, andfire crackles between his

fingers,growinguphisarms.Something in his shirt keepsit from burning, and thefabric doesn’t smoke away.“When they break throughthe wall, you’ll have to run.Evangeline’sweakest,butthestrongarm’s slow. You canoutrun him. They’ll try todrag this out, to make it ashow.” Then softly, “Theywon’tletusdiequickly.”

“Whataboutyou?Osanos

will—”“Let me worry about

Osanos.”The executioners move

steadily, likewolves stalkingprey. They spread out acrossthemiddleof thearena,eachone ready to advance.Somewhere, metal scrapesandapieceofthearenafloorslides away, revealing asloshingpoolofwateratLordOsanos’s feet. He smiles,

drawing the water up to himin a menacing shield. IrememberhisdaughterTiranadueling Maven in Training.Shedestroyedhim.

All around, the crowdjeers. Ptolemus roars withthem, letting his famedtemper takeover.He smacksathisarmor, ringing it likeabell. At his side, Evangelinespinsherknives,slidingthemoverherknuckleswithagrin.

“This won’t be likebefore,Red,”shecrows.“Notrickscansaveyounow.”

Tricks.Evangelineknowsmyabilitiesbetter thanmost;she knows they weren’ttricks. But she believes. Sheignores the truth forsomething easier tounderstand.

The Haven son, Stralian,grins to himself. Like hissister Elane, he is a shadow.

When he flickers out ofbeing, disappearing in thebright sunlight, Cal movesfasterthanIthoughtpossible,swinging out his arm in awidearclikehe’s throwingahaymakerpunch.

A roar of flame followshisarm,burningupthesand,separatingus from them.Butthe fire is surprisingly weak.Thesandwillbarelyburn.

I can’t stop myself from

glancing back at Maven,wanting to scream at him,only to find he’s still staringat me with that insufferablecrooked smirk. Not only hashe taken away my abilities,buthe’slimitingCalasmuchashecan.

“Bastard,” I curse undermybreath.“Thesand—”

“I know,” Cal snaps,igniting more bits of theground with a wave of his

hand.Directly across from us,

thelineofflameseparatesforasecond,followedcloselybya bitter scream of pain. Onthe other side of the dyingfire, Stralian fades back intosight,battingflamesfromhisarms. Osanos douses himwith a lazy gesture, puttingout the fire with a wave ofwater. Then he turns hisstartling blue eyes on us, on

Cal’s wall, and in a singlemotion, draws water acrossthe weak fire like a lappingwave. The water hisses andspits, flash-boiling into thickclouds of steam. Trapped bythe glass dome, the steamsettles through the arena,shrouding us in a ghostlywhitefog.Itswirlsandspins,enveloping us in a whiteworld where every shadowcouldbeourdoom.

“Beready!”Calshouts,ahand reaching for me, butPtolemus charges out of thesteam in a roar of flesh andsteel.

He hits Cal around themiddle, knocking him to theground, but Cal doesn’t staydown long enough forPtolemus tostaboutwithhisknives. The blades dig intothe ground seconds after Calleaps, his hands on

Ptolemus’s armor. The steelmelts beneath his touch,drawing a scream from theberserker. I can only run asCaltriestocookamaninhisownarmor.

“I don’twant to kill you,Ptolemus,” Cal says throughthe screams of pain. Everyknife, every shard of metalPtolemus raises to stab Calmelts away from his intenseheat. “I don’t want to do

this.”Threesparklingbladescut

through the steam, barelyflashing blurs. Too fast tomeltinmidair.TheyhitCal’sback, stinging through hisshirtbeforemeltingaway.Heyellsinpain,losingfocusfora second as three spots ofsilverblood stain his shirt.Thekniveswere toosmall tocut deep, but they weakenhim still. Ptolemus takes his

chanceandin theblinkofaneye, his knives meld into asingle monstrous sword. Heslashes,meaning to sliceCalintwo,buthedodgesintime,earning a scratch across thebelly.

Still alive. But not forlong.

Evangeline appearsthrough the steam, knivesswirling around in a glintingdisplay. Cal dips and dodges

herblades,throwingblastsoffire to knock her off course.He duels them both, hittingan insane rhythm that allowshim to fight off twomagnetrons, despite theirstrength and power. Butblood stains his clothes andnew wounds appear withevery passing second.Ptolemus’s weapon shifts,from a sword to an ax to arazor-thin metal whip, while

Evangeline’s jagged starskeep biting.They’rewearinghimdown.Slowlybutsurely.

My lightning, I thinkmournfully, looking back toArven at our gate. He’s stillthere, a black presence tohauntme.Agunhangsathiswaist;Ican’teventrytofighthim.Ican’tdoanything.

Whenamassivechunkofconcrete sails out of thesteam, heading directly for

me, I barely have time tododge. It shatters against thesand where I stood secondsago,butbeforeIhavetimetothink,anothercomeshunting,howling through the air. Thesky is raining concrete downon me. Like Cal, I find myrhythm,scurryingthroughthesand like a rat, untilsomethingstopsmeshort.

A hand. An invisiblehand.

Stralian’s grip closes onmy throat, chokingme. Icanhearhimbreathinginmyear,though I can’t seehim. “Redand dead,” he growls,tighteninghishand.

My arm swings out,digginganelbow intowhat Isuppose are his ribs, but heholds firm. I can’t breatheand black spots dot myvision, threatening to spread,but I keep fighting. Through

the haze, I can see theRhambos strongarmprowling, his eyes locked onme.He’llpullmeapart.

Cal still fights the Samossiblings,doinghisbestnottoget stabbed. I can’t screamfor him even if I wanted to,but somehow he manages tothrow a fireball my way.Rhambos has to jump back,stumbling on his massivefeet, buying me a few more

seconds. Gasping, choking, Idig my nails back, reachingforaheadIcannotsee.It’samiracle when I feel his faceand then his eyes. With agasping scream, I dig in,thumbs to his eye sockets,blinding him. Stralian roars,letting go of me. He falls tohisknees,flickeringbackintobeing.Silverbloodtrailsfromhiseyeslikemirroredtears.

“Youweresupposedtobe

mine!”avoicescreams,andIturn to see Evangelinestanding over Cal, her bladeraised.PtolemushaswrestledCal to theground, thetwoofthemrollingthroughthesandwith Evangeline hauntingover them, her knivespeppering the ground aroundhim.“Mine!”

Itdoesn’toccurtomethatrunning headfirst into amagnetron might not be a

good idea until I collide intoher.Wefalltogether,myfacescraping along her armor. Itsmartsand stingsandbleeds,dripping red for all to see.Though I can’t see thescreens, I know every onebroadcasts the image of mybloodthroughthecountry.

Evangeline shrieks,lashing out with her dancingblades. Behind us, Cal fightsto his feet, blastingPtolemus

awaywithablazeoffire.Themagnetron collides with hissister, knocking her awayseconds before her knivesslicethroughme.

“Duck!” Cal shouts,throwing me to the sand asanother slab of concrete fliesoverus,shatteringagainstthefarwall.

We can’t keep this up.“I’vegotanidea.”

Calspitsatthesand,andI

thinkIseeafewteethmixedin with the blood. “Good,becauseIranoutofthemfiveminutesago.”

Another block sails by,forcingus to jumpapart, andjust in time. Evangeline andPtolemus return with avengeance,lockingCalintoachaotic dance of knives andshrapnel.Theirpowers shakethe arena around us, callingup more metal from down

deep,forcingCaltowatchhisfootingalongwitheverythingelse. Shards of pipes andwires poke up through thesand, creating a deadlyobstaclecourseofmetal.

One of them stabsStralianwherehekneels,stillscreamingoverhiseyes.Thepipe goes straight throughhim,poppingout throughhismouth tosilencehiscries forgood.Through thewreckage,

Ihearthearenacrowdscreamand gasp at the sight. For alltheir violent ways, all theirpower,they’restillcowards.

My feet pound throughthesandasIcircleRhambos,daring him to attack me.Cal’s right, I’m faster, andthoughRhambosisamonsterof muscle, he trips over hisown feet trying to chaseme.Heripsthejaggedpipesfromtheground, throwing themat

me like spears, but they’reeasytododgeandheroarsinfrustration. I’m Red, I’mnothing, and I can stillmakeyoufall.

The sound of rushingwaterbringsmeback,makingme remember the fifthexecutioner.Thenymph.

I turn just in time to seeLord Osanos part the steamlike a curtain, clearing thearena floor. And ten yards

away, still dueling hard, isCal. Smoke and fire explodefrom him, beating back themagnetrons. But as Osanosadvances,thewatertrailinginaswirlingcloak,Cal’sflamesrecede. Here is the trueexecutioner. Here is the endoftheshow.

“Cal!” I scream, butthere’s nothing I can do forhim.Nothing.

Another pipe sails past

mycheek, so close I feel thecold sting, so close it makesme spin and fall. The gate isonlyyards away,withArvenstill standing in its mouth,half-shroudedbydarkness.

CalsendsablastoffireatOsanos, but he smothers itquickly. Steam screams fromthe clash of water and fire,butwateriswinning.

Rhambos advances,pushing me back toward the

gate. Cornered. I let himcorner me. Rocks and metalbreakagainst thewallbehindme, enough to shatter mybones. Lightning, my headscreams.LIGHTNING.

But there’s nothing. Justthe dark smother of deadsenses,suffocatingme.

All around us, the crowdjumps to their feet, sensingthe end. I can hear Mavenabove me, cheering with all

therest.“Finish them off!” he

yells. It still surprises me tohearsuchmaliceinhisvoice.Butwhen I lookup,hiseyesmeeting mine through theshield and steam, there’snothing but anger and rageandevil.

Rhambos takes aim, along, jagged pipe in hand.Deathhascome.

Overthedin,Iheararoar

oftriumph:Ptolemus.HeandEvangeline step back from aswirlingorbofwater,andthecloudy figure deep within.Cal.Thewaterboils, andhisbody strains, trying to breakfree, but it’s no use. He’sgoingtodrown.

Behindme, almost inmyear,Arven laughs tohimself.“Whohastheadvantage?”hesneers to himself, repeatinghiswordsfromTraining.

My muscles ache andtwitch, begging for it to beover. I justwant to liedown,to admit defeat, to die. Theycalled me a liar, a trickster,andtheywereright.

Ihaveonemoretrickleftupmysleeve.

Rhambos takes aim,setting his feet in the sand,and I know what I must do.He hurls his spear with suchstrength it seems to burn the

air.Idrop,throwingmyselftothesand.

A sickening squelch tellsmemy plan has worked andthe scream of electricitysurgingbacktolifetellsmeImightwin.

Behind me, Arvencollapses, a pipe spearedthroughhismiddle.

“I have the advantage,” Itellhiscorpse.

When I get back to my

feet, thunder and lightningand sparks and shocks andeverything I can possiblycontrol spits from my body.The crowd screams aloud,Mavenabovethemall.

“Killher!KILLHER!”heroars, pointing down at methrough the dome. “SHOOTHER!”

Bulletsdigintothedome,sparking and splinteringagainsttheelectricshield,but

itholdsfirm.Itwassupposedto protect them, but it iselectric, it is lightning, it ismine, and the shield protectsmenow.

The crowd gasps, notbelieving their eyes. Redblooddripsfrommywounds,and lightning trembles inmyskin,declaringwhat I amforeveryone. Overhead, thevideo screens go dark. ButI’ve already been seen. They

can’t stop what’s alreadyhappened.

Rhambos takes aquivering step back, hisbreathcatchinginhisthroat.Idon’t give him a chance totakeanother.

Silver and Red, andstrongerthanboth.

My lightning streaksthrough him, boiling hisblood,fryinghisnerves,untilhe collapses in a twitching

pileofmeat.Osanos drops next asmy

sparks run over him. Theliquid orb splashes to theground, and Cal collapses tothe sand, spitting up waterwithhackingcoughs.

Despite the jagged metalspikes punching up throughthe sand, trying to run methrough,Ibreakintoasprint,dodging and vaulting overevery obstacle. They trained

me for this. It’s their ownfault.Theyhelpedmake theirowndoom.

Evangelinewavesahand,sendingasteelbeamflyingatmy head. I slide beneath it,knees skimming across theground, before coming upbeside her, daggered bolts oflightninginmyhands.

Shecallsupaswordfromthe swirling metal, forging ablade. My lightning breaks

against it, shocking throughthe iron, but still she duels.Themetalshiftsandsplitsallaroundus,tryingtofightme.Evenherspidersreturntotearme down, but they aren’tenough.Sheisn’tenough.

Anotherblastoflightningknocks her blades away andsendshersprawling,tryingtoescapemywrath.Shewon’t.

“Not a trick,” shebreathes,takenoffguard.Her

eyesflybetweenmyhandsasshebacksaway,bitsofmetalfloatingbetweenusinahastyshield.“Notalie.”

I can taste red blood inmymouth,sharpandmetallicand strangely wonderful. Ispit it out for all to see.Overhead, the blue skydarkens through the shieldeddome. Black clouds gather,heavyand fullwith rain.Thestormiscoming.

“Yousaidyou’dkillmeifI ever got in your way.” Itfeels so good to throw herwords back in her face.“Here’syourchance.”

Her chest rises and falls,heaving with each breath.She’s tired. She’s wounded.Andthesteelbehindhereyesisalmostgone,givingwaytofear.

Shelunges,andImovetoblock her attack, but it never

comes.Instead,sheruns.Sherunsfromme,sprintingattheclosest gate she can find. Ipound after her, running tohuntherdown,butCal’sroarof frustrationstopsme inmytracks.

Osanos is on his feetagain, dueling with renewedstrength, while Ptolemusdances around them, lookingfor his opening. Cal is nogood against nymphs, not

withhisfire.Irememberhoweasily bested Maven was inhisowntrainingsolongago.

My hand closes aroundthe nymph’s wrist, shockinghim throughhis skin, forcinghim to turn his anger onme.The water feels like ahammer, knocking mebackward into the sand. Itcrashes and crashes, makingit impossible to breathe. Forthe first time since I entered

the arena, the cold hand offear clenches around myheart. Now that we have achance ofwinning, of living,I’m so afraid to lose. Mylungs scream for air and Ican’t help but open mymouth, letting the waterchoke me. It stings like fire,likedeath.

The tiniest spark runsthroughme, and it’s enough,shocking through the water

andupintoOsanos.Heyelps,jumpingbacklongenoughtoletmescramblefree,slippingthrough the wet sand. Airsearsmy lungs as I gasp forbreath,but there’sno time toenjoy it. Osanos is on meagain; this timehishandsarearoundmy neck, holdingmeunder the swirling foot ofwater.

But I’m ready for him.The fool is stupid enough to

touch me, to put his skinagainstmine.When I let thelightning go, shockingthrough flesh and water, hescreams like a boilingteakettle and flopsbackward.As the water falls away,drainingintothesand,Iknowhe’strulydead.

WhenIrise,soakingwet,shakingwithadrenaline,fear,strength,my eyes fly toCal.He’s slashed and bruised,

bleeding all over, but hisarmsragewithbrightredfire,and Ptolemus cowers at hisfeet. He raises his hands indefeat,beggingformercy.

“Kill him, Cal,” I snarl,wanting to see him bleed.Aboveus,thelightningshieldpulsesagain,surgingwithmyanger. If only it wasEvangeline.IfonlyIcoulddoitmyself.“Hetriedtokillus.Killhim.”

Cal doesn’t move,breathing hard through histeeth.Helookssotorn,eagerfor vengeance, consumed bythe thrill of battle, but alsosteadily fading back to thecalm,thoughtfulmanheusedto be. The man he can’t beanymore.

Butaman’snature isnotso easily changed. He stepsback,flamesfadingaway.

“Iwon’t.”

Thesilencepressesdown,awonderful change from thescreaming, jeering crowdwhowantedusdeadmomentsago. But when I look up, Irealize they aren’t staring.They aren’t seeing Cal’smercy or my ability. Theyaren’t even there at all. Thegreat arena has emptied,leaving no witnesses to ourvictory. The king sent themaway, to hide the truth of

whatwehavedonesohecansupplantitwithhisownlies.

From his box, Mavenbeginstoclap.

“Well done,” he shouts,moving to the edge of thearena.Hepeersatusthroughtheshield,hismothercloseathisshoulder.

The sound hurts morethan any knife, making mecringe. It echoes over theempty structure, until

marchingfeet,bootsonstoneandsand,drownhimout.

Security, Sentinels,soldiers,allofthempourontothe sand from every gate.There are hundreds,thousands, toomany to fight.Too many to run from. Wewonthebattle,butwelostthewar.

Ptolemusscramblesaway,disappearing into the crowdof soldiers.Nowwe’re alone

in a steadily closing circle,withnothingandnooneleft.

It’snot fair.Wewon.Weshowed them. It’s not fair. Iwant toscream,toshockandrageandfight,butthebulletswillgetmefirst.Hottearsofanger well inmy eyes, but Iwillnotcry.Notintheselastmoments.

“I’m sorry I did this toyou,” I whisper to Cal. Nomatter how I feel about his

beliefs, he’s the one trulylosinghere. Iknew the risks,but hewas just a pawn, tornbetween so many playing aninvisiblegame.

He clenches his jaw,twisting and turning as helooks for some way out ofthis. But there isn’t one. Idon’t expect him to forgiveme, and I don’t deserve iteither. But his hand closesovermine, holding on to the

lastpersononhisside.Slowly,hestartstohum.I

recognize the tune as the sadsong, theonewekissedto inaroomfullofmoonlight.

Thunder rumbles in theclouds, threatening to burst.Raindropspitteron thedomeabove us. It shocks andsizzlestherain,butthewaterkeeps coming in a steadydownpour. Even the skyweepsforourloss.

At the edge of his box,Mavenstaresdownatus.Thesparking shield distorts hisface, making him look likethemonsterhetrulyis.Waterdrips down his nose, but hedoesn’t notice. His motherwhisperssomethinginhisearand he jolts, brought back toreality.

“Good-bye, littlelightninggirl.”

Whenheraiseshishand,I

thinkhemightbeshaking.Like the littlegirl I am, I

squeeze my eyes shut,expectingtofeel theblindingpain of a hundred bulletsripping me apart. Mythoughts turn inward, todayslong past. To Kilorn, myparents, my brothers, mysister. Will I see them allsoon?Myheart tellsmeyes.They’re waiting for me,somewhere, somehow. And

like I did that day in theSpiral Garden, when Ithought I was falling to mydeath, I feel cold acceptance.I will die. I feel life leaving,andIletgo.

The storm overheadexplodes with a deafeningclap of thunder, so strong itshakes the air. The groundrumblesbeneathmyfeetand,evenbehind closed eyelids, Iseetheblindingflashoflight.

Purple andwhite and strong,the strongest thing I’ve everfelt. Weakly, I wonder whatwillhappenifithitsme.WillIdieorwillIsurvive?Willitforge me like a sword, intosomething terrible and sharpandnew?

Ineverfindout.Cal seizes me by the

shoulders, throwing us bothoutofthewayasagiantboltoflightningstreaksdownout

ofthesky.Itshattersthroughthe shield, sending purpleshardsdownonuslikefallingsnow. It sizzles against myskininadelightfulsensation,an invigorating pulse ofpower to bring me back tolife.

All around us, thegunmen cower, ducking orrunning away, trying toescape the sparking storm.Cal tries todragme,but I’m

barelyawareofhim. Instead,my senses buzz with thestorm, feeling it churningaboveme.It’smine.

Another bolt strikesdown, pounding into thesand, and the Securityofficers scatter, running forthe gates. But the Sentinelsand the soldiers are not soeasily frightened, and theycome to their senses quickly.Even though Cal pulls me

back, trying to save us both,they pursue—and there is noescape.

As good as the stormfeels, it drains me, leechingmyenergyaway.Controllinga lightning storm is just toomuch.My knees buckle, andmyheartbeatslikeadrum,sofast I think it might burst.Onemorebolt,onemore.Wemighthaveachance.

When my feet stumble

backward, heels jutting outover the empty chasm thatonce held Osanos’s waterweapon, I know it’s over.There’snowhereelsetorun.

Cal holds me tight,pulling me back from theedge in case I might fall.There’snothingbutblacknessdown there, and the echo ofchurning water deep down.Nothing but pipes andplumbing and black nothing.

And ahead of us, thepracticed, brutal ranks ofsoldiers. They take aimmechanically, raising theirgunsinunison.

The shield is broken, thestorm is dying, and we havelost. Maven can smell mydefeatandgrinsfromhisbox,his lips pulled into aterrifying smile. Even fromsuchadistance,Icanseetheglinting points of his crown.

Rainwater runs intohis eyes,but he doesn’t blink. Hedoesn’t want to miss mydeath.

The guns rise, and thistime they won’t wait forMaven’sorder.

The shooting thunderslike my storm, ringing outacrosstheemptyarena.ButIfeel nothing. When the firstline of gunmen falls, theirchests peppered with bullet

holes,Idon’tunderstand.I blink down at my feet,

only to see a line of strangegunspokingoutovertheedgeof the chasm. Each barrelsmokes and jumps, stillshooting, mowing down allthesoldiersinfrontofus.

Before I can understand,someone grabs the back ofmy shirt and pulls me downto fall through the black air.We land in water far below,

butthearmsneverletgo.Thewatertakesme,down

intodarkness.

EPILOGUE

The black void of sleep ebbsaway, giving way to lifeagain. My body rocks withmotion, and I can sense anengine somewhere. Metalshrieks against metal,scraping at high speed in anoise I vaguely recognize.TheUndertrain.

The seat beneath my

cheek feels oddly soft, butalso tense. Not leather orcloth or concrete, I realize,but warm flesh. It shiftsbeneath me, adjusting as Imove, and my eyes open.WhatIseeisenoughtomakemethinkI’mstilldreaming.

Cal sits across the train,his posture stiff and tense,fists clenched in his lap. Hestares straight ahead, to thepersoncradlingme,andinhis

eyes is the fire I know sowell. The train fascinateshim, and his gaze flickersnowandthen,glancingatthelights and the windows andthe wires. He’s itching toexamine it, but the person athis side keeps him frommovingatall.

Farley.The revolutionary, all

scarsandtension,standsoverhim. Somehow she survived

the slaughter under theSquare. I want to smile, tocall out to her, butweaknessbleeds through me, keepingme still. I remember thestorm,thebattleofthearena,and all the horrors that camebefore. Maven. His namemakes my heart clench,twisting in anguish andshame. Anyone can betrayanyone.

Hergunhangsacrossher

chest, ready to fire on Cal.There are more like her,tensely guarding him. Theyare broken,wounded, and sofew, but they still lookmenacing. Their eyes neverstray from the fallen prince,watching him as a mousewould a cat. And then I seehiswristsarebound,shackledin iron that he could easilymelt away. But he doesn’t.He just sits there quietly,

waitingforsomething.When he feels my gaze,

his eyes snap to mine. Lifesparksinhimagain.

“Mare,”hemurmurs, andsomeofthehotangerbreaks.Some.

MyheadspinswhenItryto sit up, but a comfortinghand pushes me back downagain. “Lie still,” a voicesays, a voice I vaguelyrecognize.

“Kilorn,”Imumble.“I’mhere.”Tomyconfusion, theold

fisher boy pushes his waythrough the Guardsmenbehind Farley. He has scarsof his own now, with dirtybandages on his arm, but hestands tall. And he is alive.Just the sight of him sends afloodofreliefthroughme.

But if Kilorn is standingthere, with the rest of the

Guard,then...My neck turns sharply,

moving to look up at thepersonaboveme.“Who—?”

The face is familiar, afaceIknowsowell.IfIwerenot already lying down, Iwould certainly fall. Theshock is toomuch forme tobear.

“Am I dead? Are wedead?”

He’s come to take me

away. I died in the arena.This was a hallucination, adream,awish,alast thoughtbefore dying. We are alldead.

Butmybrothershakeshishead slowly, staring at mewith familiar honey-coloredeyes. Shade was always thehandsomeone,anddeathhasnotchangedthat.

“You’renotdead,Mare,”he says, his voice as smooth

as I remember. “Neither amI.”

“How?” is all I canmanage, sitting back toexaminemybrotherfully.Helooks the same as Iremember, without the usualscars of a soldier. Even hisbrown hair is growing outagain,shakingoffthemilitarycut. I runmy fingers throughit, to convince myself he’sreal.

But he is not the same.Just like you are not thesame.

“The mutation,” I say,letting my hand graze hisarm.“Theykilledyouforit.”

His eyes seem to dance.“Theytried.”

Idon’tblink,timedoesn’tpass, but he’s moved at aspeed beyond my sight,beyond even that of a swift.Now he sits across fromme,

next to thestill-shackledCal.It’s likehe’sshifting throughspace,jumpingfromonespottoanotherinnotimeatall.

“And failed,” he finishesfromhisnewseat.Hisgriniswidenow,pleasantlyamusedby my openmouthed stare.“They said they killed me,they told the captains I wasdead and my body burned.”Anothersplitsecondandhe’ssitting next to me again,

appearing out of thin air.Teleporting. “But theyweren’t fast enough. No oneis.”

I try to nod, I try tounderstand his ability, hissimple existence, but I can’tcomprehendmuchmore thanthe circle of his arms aroundme.Shade.Aliveandlikeme.

“What about the others?Mom, Dad—” But Shadestillsmewithasmile.

“They’re safe andwaiting,” he says. His voicebreaksalittle,overcomewithemotion. “We’ll see themsoon.”

My heart swells at thethought. But like all myhappiness, allmy joy and allmyhope, itdoesn’t last long.My eyes fall on the Guardbristling with weapons, onKilorn’s scars, on Farley’stense face and Cal’s bound

hands.Cal,who has sufferedsomuch,escapingoneprisonforanother.

“Let him go.” I owe himmy life, more than my life.Surely I can give him somecomfort here. But no onebudgesatmywords,notevenCal.

To my surprise, heanswersbeforeFarley.“Theywon’t.Andtheyshouldn’t.Infact, you should probably

blindfold me, if you reallywanttobethorough.”

Even though he’s beencast down, thrown out of hisown life, Cal can’t changewho he is. The soldier is inhim still. “Cal, shut up.You’re not a danger toanyone.”

With a scoff,Cal tips hishead,gesturingatthetrainofarmed rebels. “They seem tothinkotherwise.”

“Nottous,Imean,”Iadd,shrinking back against myseat. “He savedmeup there,even after what I did. AndafterwhatMaven did to you—”

“Don’tsayhisname.”Hisgrowl is frightful, putting achill inme, and I don’tmissFarley’s hand tighteningaroundhergun.

Her words slide outbetween clenched teeth. “No

matter what he did for you,theprince isnotonour side.And I won’t risk what’s leftofusforyourlittleromance.”

Romance. We flinch atthe word. There is no suchthing between us anymore.Notafterwhatwedidtoeachother, andwhat was done tous. No matter how much wemightwanttheretobe.

“We’re going to keepfighting, Mare, but Silvers

have betrayed us before.Wewon’t trust them again.”Kilorn’s words are softer, abalm to try to help meunderstand. But his eyesspark at Cal. Obviously heremembers the torture downin the cells and the terriblesight of frozen blood. “Hemightbeavaluableprisoner.”

Theydon’tknowCallikeI do. They don’t know hecould destroy them all, that

hecouldescapeinaheartbeatif he really wanted. So whydoeshestay?Whenhemeetsmy eyes, somehow heanswersmy questionwithoutspeaking. The hurt I seeradiatingfromhimisenoughtobreakmyheart.Heistired.Heisbroken.Andhedoesn’twanttofightanymore.

Partofmedoesn’t either.Part of me wishes I couldsubmit to chains, to captivity

and silence.But I have livedthat life already, in themud,intheshadows,inacell,inasilkdress.Iwillneversubmitagain. I will never stopfighting.

Neither will Kilorn.Neither will Farley. We willneverstop.

“The others like us . . .”My voice shakes, but I havenever felt so strong. “TheotherslikemeandShade.”

Farley nods and pats ahand to her pocket. “I stillhave the list. I know thenames.”

“And so does Maven,” Ireply smoothly. Cal twitchesat the name. “He’ll use thebloodbase to trace them, andhuntthemdown.”

Even though the trainsways and shakes, twistingover dark tracks, I forcemyselftomyfeet.Shadetries

to steadyme, but I brushhishand away. I must stand onmyown.

“He can’t find thembefore we do.” I raise mychin, feeling the pulse of thetrain. It electrifies me. “Hecan’t.”

WhenKilornstepstowardme, his face set anddetermined, his bruises andscars and bandages seem tofade.IthinkIseethedawnin

hiseyes.“Hewon’t.”A strange warmth falls

over me, a warmth like thesun though we are deepunderground. It’s as familiarto me as my own lightning,reachingouttoenvelopmeinan embrace we can’t have.EventhoughtheycallCalmyenemy,eventhoughtheyfearhim, I let hiswarmth fall onmy skin, and I let his eyes

burnintomine.Our shared memories

flash before me, paradingevery second of our timetogether. But now ourfriendship is gone, replacedbytheonethingwestillhaveincommon.

OurhatredforMaven.I don’t need to be a

whisper to know we share athought.

Iwillkillhim.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’lldothischronologically,totry to include everyone,because I owe thanks to somany people. First and mostof all, my ridiculouslysupportive parents whoencouraged me to doanything and everything Iwanted. They remain mygreatest teachers, and I’m

grateful for every gift,especially letting me watchJurassicPark at 3 years old.Tomybrother,Andrew,whojoined in on every game andevery joke, and made myfantasy worlds so muchbigger and brighter. Mygrandparents—George andBarbara, Mary and Frank—who gave and continue togive more love and memorythan I can understand. Too

many aunts, uncles, andcousins to name, not tomention friends andneighbors who tolerated merunning through their livesand backyards. Natalie,Lauren, Teressa, Kim,Katrina, and Sam,who stuckwith me through the roughteen years and questionableclothing choices. Of course,every English and socialstudies teacher I ever had,

who continuously toldme tostop writing novels foressays. And I have to thankthe ones who influenced mebeyond reason, even thoughthey don’t know me. StevenSpielberg, George Lucas,PeterJackson,J.R.R.Tolkien,J.K. Rowling, C.S. Lewis. Igrewup ina small town,butbecause of these people, myworldneverseemedthatway.

The University of

SouthernCalifornia and theirincomparable School ofCinematic Arts somehow letme slip in, and completelychanged the trajectory ofmylife. My screenwritingprofessors, every single oneof them, pushed me into thewriter I am now, and taughtme every trick I know. Notonly did I begin to believethis storytelling compulsionofminewasaviablepursuit,

but I startedbecomingwho Iwanted to be. Thescreenwriting program itselfisthereasonIgotthechancetobeaworkingwriter, and Ican’t thank them enough. Iwas lucky enough to makeamazing friends, someofmyclosest, at SC—Nicole,Kathryn, Shayna, Jen L.,Erin,Angela,Bayan,Morgan,Jen R., Tori, the Chez boys,Traddies,etc.—whomademe

begrudgingly better (anddelightfully worsesometimes).

After college, I faced theterrifying prospect of animpossible career choice.Luckily,IhadBenderspinkatmy back, especially my firstmanager, ChristopherCosmos,whoencouragedmeto writeRedQueen.When Ifinishedthefirstdraft,hesentitalongtoNewLeafLiterary,

and set me on another life-changing path. I landedwiththebest inpublishing:PouyaShahbazian,whocontinuestoguideRQandmethroughthewaters of the entertainmentindustry; Kathleen Ortiz, mypassport to theworldand thereasonRQcontinuestotravelthe globe; Jo Volpe, ourfearless captain andwonderful friend; DanielleBarthel, JaidaTemperly, Jess

Dallow, and Jackie Lindert,who tolerate my weirdrequests and are completelyindispensable;DaveCaccavo,a fellow GeorgeWashingtonand USA soccer enthusiast,and I’m told he’s good atnumbers; and sorry guys, Isaved the best for last, SuzieTownsendcontinuestobemyliterary North Star. RedQueen is now a real bookbecause of so many people,

but especially her. She’s thepush, pull, and pat on theheadI’llalwaysneed.

WhenSuzie called to tellmewehadanofferonRQ, Itold her I was driving andmight crash into a tree. I didnotcrash,butIdidacceptthepreemptfromKariSutherlandandHarperTeen.Asmy firsteditor,Kariheldmyhandonmy journey into the largerpublishing world, and turned

a manuscript into a novel. Icannot express my unendinggratitude to her, AliceJerman,andtheentireHarperteam: our dauntless leaderand editor-in-chief KateJackson; Jen Klonsky,appetizer extraordinaire andfantastic editorial director;production editors AlexandraAlexo and Melinda Weigel;copy editor StephanieEvans,who wrangles my commas

like no other; productionmanager Lillian Sun; designwizards Sarah Kaufman,Alison Klapthor, and BarbFitzsimmons, along withcover artist Michael Frost,you’vemadeatrulybeautifulbook; marketing teamChristina Colangelo andElizabeth Ward, putting RQon the map; Emily Butler,KaraBrammer, andMadisonKillen, for making me

passable and comfortable oncamera, not to mention inframe;theincomparableGinaRizzoandSandeeRoston,thepublicity team workingaroundtheclocktospreadtheworld; Ashton Quinn, forsales and great support; theEpicReadsteam,MargotandAubry, who have shimmiedtheirway intomycoldheart;Elizabeth Lynch(pin), one ofthe hardest working people I

know; and the joy that isKristen Pettit, who bravelyleadsRQ and the rest of theseriesthroughitsjourney.

I won’t say it takes avillage, because that’soverdone (but seriously, ittakes a village). The rest ofmine includes myentertainment team—all thetroopers at Benderspink: theJakes, JC, Daniel, the ever-wrangling David, and too

many interns to thank. Mylawyer Steve Younger, akamy West Coast dad. SaraScott and GenniferHutchison, the warriorprincesses hopefully bringingRQ to the big screen. AndthentherearethepeopleI’venever met in real life, whotweet and email and IM methrough each day. Publishingand entertainment are verymuch alive on social media,

and I’ve met so manyinspiring and encouragingfolkswhowelcomedme intothe fold. Every author,blogger,writer, and fan is sovaluable, and I thank you allfor your words and support.Particularly Emma Theriault,my Canadian twin, reader,critic,andfriend.

I’m a writer, and thatmeans I mostly work alone,but I’mnever truly thatway.

Thank you so much toeveryone who stands by meand accepts my weirdness—Culver, Morgan and Jenespecially, mindmeld Bayan,thearcaneErin,and#Angela,who never judge me (outloud). And my lifestylestaples that get me throughthe days—Jackson Market,the barista who never caresabout my hobo clothing,Target, fall foliage, Pottery

Barn,bookstores,yogapants,tacky t-shirts, the NationalParks System, the Patriots(both football and foundingfathers),GeorgeR.R.Martin,andWikipedia.Ialsohavetothank the state of Montana,where I wrote chapter twoanddecidedIwasgoingallinonthisbook-writingthing.

I apologize for being sogushy, but I’m almost done.Once more to Morgan, my

bestfriendandthekickinthepantsIneedandneverwant.Iwillcontinue leaving thehalllight on. And again to myparents, Heather and Louis.They letmemovehome andfocus on writing a book,which is crazy. They helpedme go to an awesome butshockingly expensiveuniversity far away,which iscrazy.Theyraisedweirdomeinto some semblance of a

functioning human, which iscrazy. And they continue tosupport, love, sacrifice, andtakeme down a peg, usuallyallatthesametime.Theygotme to where I am, andenabledthisbook,thisfuture,andthislifetohappen.Whichiscrazy.

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ABOUTTHEAUTHOR

VICTORIA AVEYARDwas born and raised in EastLongmeadow,Massachusetts,a small townknownonly for

theworst traffic rotary in thecontinentalUnitedStates.ShemovedtoLosAngelestoearnaBFAinscreenwritingattheUniversity of SouthernCalifornia, and stayed theredespite the lack of seasons.Sheiscurrentlyanauthorandscreenwriter,usinghercareerasanexcusetoreadtoomanybooks and watch too manymovies. You can visit heronline at

www.victoriaaveyard.com.

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