Power radiates from him. So much that I can feel it through the connection Deacon has with the girl. It makes my blood fizz, and my skin feels as if lightning is zinging over the surface.

“Behold. The Firstking,” Deacon says, his tone reverent. “Creator of the realms. Father to the Kings.”

At his left is a woman with long braided hair the color of newly fallen snow. Her features are more apparent, but I almost wish they weren’t. Her beauty is overwhelming, overpowering, and as I stare at her, I’m tempted to edge closer just to touch her.

Look away, look away. The third person—a male—is younger than the Firstking. His features are clearer than the others, but he lacks their beauty. In fact, he’s almost plain. But his eyes...oh, his eyes. They are striking, as blue as the morning sky, and when he meets my gaze—

I gasp. He’s looking straight at me, as if he knows I’m watching.

He smiles in welcome.

“The Troikan King is the Firstking’s firstborn son, known here as the Secondking,” Deacon says with the same reverent tone. “The woman is the Secondking’s future bride.”

The Firstking, the Secondking and the Secondking’s fiancée. Troika, meaning three. Numbers always tell a story.

Despite the masses, not a single word is spoken. Not a whisper is heard until the Secondking steps forward. There are brands on his hands. Brands that are larger than any I’ve seen, going deeper.

“My people...my heart. For justice to serve one and all equally, always and forever, there can never be an exception to the law.” His voice is thunder, and every word causes every cell in my body to burn. “If a crime is committed, a crime must be punished.” The Secondking’s voice booms, sweeping over the crowd, strong and sure. “For every word, every action, there is a choice. Right and wrong. Life and death. Blessing and cursing. I made my choice long ago—to keep the law intact. Who among you has transgressed?”

The crowd parts in rows of four. One by one, men and women move to the bottom of the dais. I scan...there! Archer has taken his place among those at the dais, and it’s then I realize the ones being punished are the ones wearing red. Their heads are bowed, their hands clasped behind their backs.

I count the red robes—thirty-three in total—and my stomach gives another twist.

Thirty-three, the numerical equivalent of the word “amen.” 1+13+5+14=33. A normal human spine has thirty-three vertebrae when the bones that form the coccyx are counted individually. The atomic number of arsenic.

A moment passes. Nothing happens, and no one speaks.

Then, one by one, the people in red robes begin to drop to their knees. A few cry out in pain. Others tremble. All keep their heads bowed.

“What’s happening?” I ask in a whisper.

“They are experiencing the pain the one they harmed experienced.”

The Exchange. I suddenly have the answer I’d so badly wanted. Archer is experiencing Clay’s death. In his mind, he is hanging from a tree trunk, snow hitting him in the face. He is waiting for me...he is falling...he is bursting inside like a melon.

My chest begins to ache.

“Through this, we learn how our actions affect others,” Deacon says.

I hate the thought of experiencing something like this, of knowing firsthand the pain I caused someone else. But...in a way, the experience is a gift. Knowledge is power. And here...here is where compassion is born.

When it’s over, the ones in red robes stand. The royal family joins them and speaks softly to each one. Hands are clasped. Hugs are given.

The red robes return to the crowd, their heads still bowed. Archer, however, pushes his way to Deacon’s friend and meets the girl’s gaze—meets my gaze. His expression projects torment and sorrow.

This is the first time I’ve seen him without the Shell, and I notice little difference. The tone of his skin is more bronzed. The ends of his hair are like molten gold. His lashes are longer, his jaw a little more square. He really is quite beautiful.

The two clasp hands and suddenly the view changes. I’m looking at the friend rather than Archer. A girl identical to the redhead we met before.

“Thank you,” Archer says.

She rises on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “If you need me, all you have to do is ask.”

The two part ways. Archer takes us back through the garden, his gait fast. Pain must not linger after the Exchange. Not physical pain, anyway. When he clears the other side, a neighborhood comes into view, the houses a hodgepodge of designs; they look as if they belong in different parts of the world. A Southern plantation is next to a Spanish pueblo, which is next to an English cottage.

Waiting in front of the planation is—

“Clay!” I exclaim.

He smiles at Archer, and he looks good. His dark hair is a mess, his eyes sparkling. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that conforms to his biceps, which actually look bigger. Someone’s been working out like a fiend.

“You asked me to be here,” Clay says. “Well, here I am.”

Archer enfolds him in a hug. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I put a feud before your safety, that I wasn’t there to save your life.”

Tears fill my eyes.

Clay pats his shoulder as he draws back. “I told you, man. All’s forgiven.”

A pause, and I think Archer really wants to apologize again. “How’s training coming?”

“I’m learning to inhabit a Shell, and next I’ll learn how to use the weapons. I’ve only been drooling over those Oxies since my arrival.”

Archer pats his shoulder. “Light Brings Sight, my friend.”

Clay grins. “Light Brings Sight.”

The two part ways, and a weight lifts from my shoulders.

Clay is happy. He’s got a bright future ahead of him.

Archer makes a beeline for the plantation, passing towering pillars...a massive set of doors, already open. The interior is a dream come true. Wainscoting and detailed frieze molding. Vibrant rugs and crystal chandlers suspended from arched ceilings. I want to study everything in more detail, but Archer doesn’t focus on anything but the man standing at the foot of a winding staircase.

I know him. Levi. My former TL. There’s not a strand of dark hair out of place, and his lips are turned up in a welcoming smile. He’s dressed in a perfectly tailored suit. He’s dashing, the epitome of charm and sophistication.

He pats Archer on the shoulder. “Hello, Miss Lockwood. Miss Aubuchon.”

We both jolt in surprise.

“Ten,” he continues, walking to a pretty woman who is holding an infant. “I thought you’d enjoy a peek at our newest little charmer.”

Jeremy? I’m trembling. “Yes. Please, yes.”

He picks up the baby, oh...oh! Jeremy looks so healthy. His skin is pink and his cheeks rounded. He waves his arms and kicks his legs, and he’s smiling! He isn’t swaddled in a blanket—maybe he doesn’t need to be while in spirit form—but he’s wearing a onesie that reads Turn On the Light!

“He’s thriving,” Levi says. “And he is already loved. I’ve never had so many females visit my home.”

I place my hand over my mouth to mute my cry. This. This is joy.

Light in the house flickers, and Levi frowns. He hands Jeremy back to the woman. “Guard him with your life.” He strides into another room.