“Where are you staying?”

I rattle off the name of a local inn I’d seen during the qualifying races. “My father is doing business in Estenzia for several months,” I add. “We heard this morning that the king’s funeral may also involve an excecution. Is it true?”

The Inquisitor casts me another dubious look, but people are crowding behind us and he has no time to waste. He finally grunts his approval at us and waves for us to continue. “Nothing you Beldish would appreciate,” he answers. “Carry on.”

I don’t dare look back, but behind us, I hear him turn his attention to questioning the next person.

The arena had been built to hold tens of thousands of people. The archways stretch up toward the sky and down into the ground, so that even though we entered the space from ground level, we now stand along a row of stone benches looking down at dozens of rows below us, benches that wrap around the arena in circles before ending at the bottom in a wide, central space. Hordes of people mill in the aisles. Among them are our patrons’ soldiers. I can’t tell which ones they are, but they are here, scattered and hidden among the masses. Waiting for Enzo’s signal. I crane my neck, searching for him. Violetta shakes her head, letting me know she doesn’t sense him nearby.

“Come on,” I whisper, tugging her hand. “Let’s get closer.” We head down the rows until we are almost at the very bottom, then take our seats in the first row.

Before us stretches the arena’s center. It is flooded with water, a deep lake with channels that filter out into the Sun Sea; the dark shapes of baliras swirl underneath the surface. Cutting above the lake is a wide strip of stone path stretching from where Violetta and I sit to the other side of the arena, with a larger round platform in the very center. During a typical celebration, balira riders will wait along the platform and call for their baliras, and when the enormous creatures burst from the water, the riders jump onto their backs and perform stunning acrobatics to a cheering audience. Masked revelers in elaborate costumes would parade along the path, magnificent in their glittering colors.

Not today. Today, white-cloaked Inquisitors line both sides of the stone path. In the water, baliras circle, their calls muted, haunting and ghostly. I turn away, then scan the rest of the filling arena. There’s a cloak of fear and anxiety that blankets the entire space. Some of the onlookers seem excited, restless for the promise of blood. Others stay seated, with their mouths pulled into grim lines, whispering among themselves. My restlessness rises with them. Threads glitter in the air, tempting me.

My breaths are starting to come in shallower gasps as I continue to hold our illusions steady across our faces. Violetta touches my shoulder. She nods toward the opposite end of the arena. “There,” she whispers. I follow her gaze. Enzo is somewhere in the crowd.

The Daggers should all be in position by now, along with their supporters.

Finally, after what seems like hours, all the Inquisitors lining the arena draw their swords and hoist them into the air for a traditional salute. The crowds hush. I look toward the royal pavilion, where the king would have once appeared with his crown and golden cloak.

Instead, the pavilion stays empty. And at the far end of the arena, Teren strides in with Inquisitors flanking him. A helmet shields his eyes from view, transforming him into the fearful image of someone not quite human. Right in front of him, weighed down in chains and guarded by more soldiers, with a blindfold over his eyes and a gag in his mouth, is Raffaele. My heart begins to pound.

Teren stops in the middle of the arena, then holds up his hands to the crowd. “My fellow citizens!” His voice echoes around the central structure. “It is with a heavy heart that we gather here today, not in celebration, but in mourning of our king’s death.” Not far from him, Inquisitors force Raffaele to his knees, draw their swords, and press the blades against his neck. “Your queen leads you now, Kenettrans. And with this new era, you will witness a historic moment, when our great and glorious nation is cleansed of the demons that have haunted us. That have tried to bring terror down on us.”

Beside me, Violetta grips my hand tighter. I look down and see that her knuckles have turned white.

Teren turns in a grand circle, his white cloak trailing, and smiles at the quiet audience. “Reaper!” he shouts. “A deal is a deal. I have your little consort-friend here”—he pauses to bow tauntingly in Raffaele’s direction—“and we are both waiting for you. Come out, demon.” His smile fades, replaced with a chilling blankness. “Come out, so we can play.”

I hold my breath. For a moment, nothing but silence blankets the crowd. The people shift uneasily, their eyes roaming for a sign of Enzo. My attention shifts to the long row of Inquisitors lining either side of the stone path over the water.

One of the Inquisitors near Teren breaks from the formation, then walks forward until the two stand barely ten feet apart. Some of the Inquisitors draw their swords—but most hesitate, thinking that the man is still one of them.

I grit my teeth and release the illusion of disguise on the newcomer. A sense of relief glides through me. Before everyone’s eyes, the Inquisitor gradually transforms from a white-cloaked figure to a tall boy in dark robes, his face hidden behind a silver mask and his hood pulled low over his face. Enzo.

Inquisitors lining the platform draw their swords, but Teren holds up a hand. He turns toward where Enzo now stands up. The crowd ripples with shouts, and I close my eye, savoring the wave of their fear. My strength builds.

The two face each other for a moment, neither speaking. Finally, Teren tilts his chin up. “How do I know this is your true self?” he shouts. “Is your little illusion worker hiding the other Elites here too?” Behind him, the Inquisitors press their swords tighter against Raffaele’s throat.

“You know who I am,” Enzo replies in a clear voice.

“Why should I believe you?”

“Why should I?” Enzo’s tone turns mocking.

Then, Teren reaches up and removes his helmet, revealing his wheat-blond hair. He tosses the helmet away. “Show me who you really are, Reaper,” he calls out, nodding at Enzo’s silver mask. “Or your friend dies.”

Enzo doesn’t hesitate. He reaches up and pulls the dark hood of his cloak from his face, exposing his bloodred hair. Then he puts his hand on his mask, pulls it away, and unveils his identity to the crowd. He, too, tosses the mask aside.

“A deal is a deal,” Enzo calls back.

Teren stares at him with a stony face. The crowd looks on. Everyone around us is stunned into silence. I sway, dizzy from the building tension. Our illusion of disguise shimmers at the edges of my vision.

“It’s the prince!” someone shouts from the arena.

Others take up the cry, and the revelation rips through the audience. Even though I can feel the overwhelming fear darkening the people, I can also sense the crackle of excitement, the emotions from malfetto supporters in the crowd and our own patrons’ fighters. Through the confusion, Teren nods at Enzo.

“No one will interfere,” he shouts. “I will face you alone, as long as you are bold enough to do the same.”

Enzo bows his head once in response.

Teren is lying. But so are we. This is a battle poised to erupt.

“It’s been a long time, Your Highness,” Teren says, pointing his sword at Enzo. I would have expected his tone to be mocking, but instead he’s serious. Not a hint of amusement is in his voice. To my surprise, he bows his head at Enzo in genuine respect. “Let’s see if you’ve gotten any better.”

Enzo pulls long, gleaming daggers from the sheaths on his back. The metal of each weapon turns red, then white hot. Fire explodes from Enzo’s hands and wraps both of them in a large ring, separating them from everyone else. The audience screams.

Teren lunges forward.

Enzo strikes out with his daggers, aiming for the eyes, but Teren puts up his shoulder and shields his face—the blow deflects harmlessly off his hard skin. Enzo rolls away, hops back to his feet, and whirls on his enemy again. They circle each other in a slow arc. Enzo twirls a dagger in one of his gloved hands.

“You seem hesitant this morning,” Teren calls out. He strikes at Enzo with unnerving speed. Enzo dances out of the way, spins, and lashes out as hard as he can with both daggers. One of them manages to make impact, striking Teren somewhere on his side—but it looks as if someone were trying to stab through soft wood. Teren grunts, but the instant the blade leaves his side, he grins.

“Use your fire, Reaper,” he taunts. “Give me a challenge.”

Enzo attacks again. This time, his blades burst into flames, carving streaks of fire in the air as he lunges for Teren. He feints left, then twists in midair and slashes out at Teren’s face. Sure enough, Teren jerks his head away from the blow—but Enzo moves along with him, twin blades burning, anticipating where he’ll turn, and brings his second dagger viciously up toward Teren’s eyes. The Inquisitor darts away barely in the nick of time. Enzo’s blade scrapes against the side of Teren’s cheek, leaving a gash that closes right up.

Teren smiles. “Better.”

My turn. With a deep breath, I drop the disguises on Violetta and myself, then immediately cloak us in invisibility. Around us, people gasp in shock—but we are already on the move. I hurry to the small gate at the edge of the row, which leads into the lake’s pathway. We cross over. Inquisitors line the pathway, poised to attack if given the command. I carefully make our way forward.

“Tell me,” Enzo calls out over the roar of the flames. “Why do you turn your back on others like yourself?”

Teren doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he draws his sword and strikes out at Enzo. Enzo leaps to the side, but not before the sword’s blade nicks a line in his arm. He conjures a burst of fire that swallows Teren whole—but Teren doesn’t show any sign of pain. He steps out of the flames with a wicked smile, his skin crisping, darkening, and then returning to normal. The edges of his cloak fray and burn from the heat, but the clothes in contact with his skin stay untouched, as if behind some shield of protection.

“I never turned my back,” Teren calls out. “I am the only one willing to help. Look at what we’re doing right now, Reaper—our powers are curses from the Underworld, and we use them to destroy everything we touch.”

“Destruction is a choice.” Enzo raises one hand, calling the flames hotter, brighter, until the fire turns blinding white and engulfs Teren entirely. If Teren can’t see, he can’t attack. Enzo hefts a dagger. The fire suddenly vanishes—and in the abrupt absence, Enzo flings the dagger at Teren’s eyes.

Teren deflects the dagger with his sword, then catches the dagger in midair and throws it back. Enzo ducks to the ground in a graceful sweep. “I am cursed, just as you are. Yet, while you continue to defend those born from the leftovers of the blood fever, I’m doing what the gods always intended.” Teren’s pale eyes seem to soak in the flames that surround them, shading them a terrifying color. His lips curl into a snarl.

Enzo pushes against Teren’s blade. His muscles bulge under his sleeves. Teren is simply too strong—I can see Enzo’s strength slowly ebbing away. Still, I can hear Enzo’s voice ringing out over the melee. “Perhaps you do it because you love your powers,” he shouts, mocking, “and you want to be the only one with such a gift.”

Teren’s smile vanishes. “How little you know about me, Your Highness,” he replies. “Even after all these years.”

Enzo lunges forward and slashes at Teren’s eyes. This time, his blade manages to cut the edge of Teren’s eyelid before he darts away. When he looks at Enzo again, blood smears the film over his left eye, turning the pale iris bright red.

Teren launches himself at Enzo. He sidesteps with him, then plunges a dagger deep into Enzo’s shoulder. I gasp. The flames around them falter. He shudders—but still manages to yank himself away. The blade tears out of his shoulder. Violetta and I are now so close that I can feel the heat from the fire. We are in position. Is everyone else too?

Teren’s eyes burn. Enzo steps in front of Raffaele and turns to face Teren again, ready for another attack. Blood drips from his shoulder. Then—he raises a dagger high in the air and waves it once.

Our signal.

Several things happen at once. Arrows hit the two Inquisitors holding Raffaele down. A curtain of wind smashes into the other Inquisitors nearest Raffaele—it flings them all into the water in a chorus of shrieks. From deep within the lake, two baliras explode from the surface, translucent bodies arcing over the path where Violetta and I are crouching. I flatten against the stone. My sister follows. The baliras send tides crashing against the platform, and rain down glittering water across the entire arena. Their eyes are black with fury, their calls thundering. One of them flips in midair, its enormous fleshy wings coming down on a line of Inquisitors at the end of the stone path. They are swept into the water. Another enormous wing sweeps right over our heads, flinging away the Inquisitors closest to us.

The other balira has a rider on board. Gemma. I look on as her creature turns, allowing her to reach down and clasp Raffaele’s arm. She pulls him to safety on board the balira’s back.

Our turn. Violetta reaches out with her energy at the same time I reach out with mine. She pulls Teren’s powers away from him. Out on the platform, Teren’s eyes bulge—he stumbles backward a step, then crouches down on one knee as if someone had struck a violent blow. Violetta sucks her breath in sharply. She won’t be able to hold his powers back for long.

I drop our invisibility. For the first time, we are exposed in the arena. I focus all my concentration and reach out for Enzo’s energy. In a flash, he transforms from himself into an exact copy of Teren.