Through my dizziness, I feel Violetta wrapping her arm around my shoulder. She steadies me. When I look up, I meet her solemn eyes. “Who was he?” she whispers.
Her question sounds like an accusation. It confuses me. “Who?”
Violetta’s eyes turn stricken. “You mean, you don’t—”
This must be what it feels like to lose your mind. I shake off her arm and turn my attention back to the streets. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I snap. I wait for Violetta to say something in return, but she stays quiet, and we don’t exchange another word until we near the arches of the Fortunata Court.
By the time we arrive, the city is full of the sound of screams, and the faint dawn is broken by bursts of orange. We pause in an alley to catch our breath. All of my strength has been sapped, and I don’t even try to conjure an illusion to protect us. Violetta keeps her eyes turned away from me, her expression stricken.
“Get back,” she suddenly whispers.
We shrink into the shadows as Inquisitors come running past the main street and into a nearby shop. Moments later, they drag a malfetto woman out, throwing her down with such force that she falls onto her hands and knees. She’s sobbing. Behind her, white cloaks flutter inside her shop, and the first signs of fire flicker at the windows. We watch in silence, hearts in our throats, as the woman begs them for mercy. One of the Inquisitors prepares to strike her. Up in the windows of nearby homes, neighbors look on. Their faces are pictures of horror. But they stay silent, and do not help.
Suddenly, the Inquisitor who is about to strike the woman tilts backward. As if a curtain of wind swept him off his feet. Then he’s yanked, shrieking, high into the air, past the roofline of the buildings. My eye widens. Windwalker. The Elites are here. The Inquisitor hovers in the sky for a moment—and then plummets to the street with a sickening crunch. Violetta flinches and turns into my shoulder. At the same time, the flames in the shop vanish without a trace, leaving nothing but black smoke curling from the building. Other Inquisitors shout in alarm. But wherever the Daggers were, they’re already gone. I shrink farther into the shadows, suddenly terrified that they will find me.
In the distance, we hear several malfettos in the street call out, “The Young Elites!” The woman on her knees screams, “They’re here! Save us!”
Others chant the same. The desperation in their voices raises the hairs on my neck. But nothing else happens. The Inquisitors sweep the streets, looking for them, but they are nowhere to be found.
“We have to get out of here,” I whisper. “Follow me. We’re going underground.”
And with that, Violetta and I backtrack out of our alley and flee down a quieter path, away from the carnage.
By the time the sun finally rises, we arrive at the streets in front of the Fortunata Court. I freeze, unwilling to believe what I see. The place, once a crown jewel, is now charred and destroyed, ransacked by Inquisitors. Blood stains the street at its entrance. The Daggers must be gone too—all their plans, their mission to assassinate the king, their safe house, destroyed. In one night.
There’s nothing left.
When the Aristans conquered the Salans, they took everything
with them, their jewels, their honor, and their children,
sometimes straight from the womb.
—Journal chronicling Amadera’s First Civil War, 758–762,
by Mireina the Great
Adelina Amouteru
I didn’t dare step back inside the Fortunata Court. I didn’t know if there were still Inquisitors combing through the rooms there . . . and I didn’t know if I’d be ready to see whether or not the Inquisitors found the Daggers’ secret chambers. Whether or not there are any bodies inside that I’d recognize. I didn’t want to know.
Instead, I took Violetta’s hand and led us down to the only place where I thought we’d be safe. The catacombs.
From deep within the tunnels underneath the city, the roar of people aboveground sounds like a strange, muted echo, whispers of the ghosts that must haunt these dark, narrow corridors. Faint shafts of light come from small gratings at the top of the corridor, and the dimness of a rainy morning paints everything in a haze. I don’t know where else to go. We’ve been down here for a full day since we fled the Fortunata Court’s ashes, hiding in the midst of death. From here, we heard Teren’s voice ringing out across the palace square, saw Inquisitors swarming through the city streets. The memory of last night leaves a nauseating, aching feeling in my stomach. I should’ve stopped and helped the people in the streets. But I had no strength.
What has happened to Enzo, now that the court is ruined and the king is dead? What will they do now?
We can’t stay here long. Maybe the Inquisition has discovered the Fortunata Court’s secret passageways and uncovered the Daggers’ access to the catacombs. Maybe they are searching through the tunnels now, hunting for us. For now, though, we rest here, too exhausted to continue.
“Are you all right?” I ask my sister as we both lean wearily against the wall. My throat’s parched, and my words come out weak and hoarse. Above, the sound of gentle rain muffles my words.
Violetta nods once. Her eyes are distant, studying the new white mask that covers my missing eye.
I sigh, then push stray hair away from my face and start braiding the strands. Long minutes of silence pass between us. I braid, then unbraid, then braid again. The silence between us drags on, but somehow it’s a comfortable one that reminds me of the days we used to spend in the garden. Finally, I look at her. “How long did Teren have you imprisoned like that?”