“We know now that you are an operative of the defeated Scarlet Guard and are directly responsible for the loss of countless lives.” The images flicker to the night of the Sun Shooting, to the ballroom full of blood and death. Farley’s flag, the fluttering red rag and the torn sun, stands out against the chaos.

“Together with my brother, Prince Tiberias the Seventh, of House Calore and House Jacos, you are accused of many violent and deplorable offenses against the crown, including deception, treason, terrorism, and murder.” Your hands are no cleaner than mine, Maven. “You killed the king, my father, bewitching his own son to do the deed. You are a Red devil”—he sweeps his eyes to Cal, now almost igniting in anger—“and you are a weak man. A traitor to your crown, your blood, and your colors.” The death of the king plays again, cementing Maven’s twisted words.

“I pronounce you both guilty of your crimes. Submit to execution.” A great jeer goes up over the arena. It sounds like pigs screaming, howling for blood.

The video screens flip back to Cal and me, expecting us to weep or plead for our lives. Neither of us moves an inch. They will not get that from us.

Maven stares over the side of his box, leering, waiting for one of us to snap.

Instead, Cal salutes, two fingers to his brow. It’s better than punching Maven across the face and he draws back, disappointed. He looks away from us, to the far side of the arena. When I turn, I expect to see the gunmen who killed Lucas, but I’m greeted by a very different sight.

I don’t know where they came from or when but five figures appear in the dust.

“That’s not too bad,” I murmur, squeezing Cal’s hand. He’s a warrior, a soldier. Five on one might even be fair for him.

But Cal furrows his brow, his attention on our executioners. They come into sharper focus and fear rolls through me. I know their names and abilities, some much better than others. All of them ripple with strength, in armor and uniforms meant for war.

A strongarm Rhambos to tear me apart, the Haven son who will disappear and choke me like a shadowed ghost, and Lord Osanos himself to drown Cal’s fire. Arven as well, I remind myself. He stands at the gate, his eyes never leaving my body.

Don’t forget the other two. The magnetrons.

It’s almost poetic, really. In matching armor, with matching scowls, Evangeline and Ptolemus stare us down, their fists bristling with long, cruel knives.

Somewhere in my head, a clock ticks, counting down. Not much time left.

Above us, Maven’s voice croaks out.

“Let them die.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

The shield explodes to life above us, a giant purple dome of veined glass like the one in the Spiral Garden. Not to protect us—but to protect the crowd. Sparks of lightning pulse through the monstrous ceiling, teasing me. Without Arven, the lightning would be mine and I could fight. I could show this world who I am. But that is not to be.

Cal shifts, putting out his arm. The air ripples around him, distorted by the waves of heat rolling off his body. He angles himself toward the others, protecting me.

“Stay behind me as long as you can,” he says, letting his own heat push me back. The flame maker sparks, and fire crackles between his fingers, growing up his arms. Something in his shirt keeps it from burning and the fabric doesn’t smoke away. “When they break through the wall, you’ll have to run. Evangeline’s weakest, but the strongarm’s slow. You can outrun him. They’ll try to drag this out, to make it a show.” Then softly, “They won’t let us die quickly.”

“What about you? Osanos will—”

“Let me worry about Osanos.”

The executioners move steadily, like wolves stalking prey. They spread out across the middle of the arena, each one ready to advance. Somewhere, metal scrapes and a piece of the arena floor slides away, revealing a sloshing pool of water at Lord Osanos’s feet. He smiles, drawing the water up to him in a menacing shield. I remember his daughter Tirana dueling Maven in Training. She destroyed him.

All around, the crowd jeers. Ptolemus roars with them, letting his famed temper take over. He smacks at his armor, ringing it like a bell. At his side, Evangeline spins her knives, sliding them over her knuckles with a grin.

“This won’t be like before, Red,” she crows. “No tricks can save you now.”

Tricks. Evangeline knows my abilities better than most; she knows they weren’t tricks. But she believes. She ignores the truth for something easier to understand.

The Haven son, Stralian, grins to himself. Like his sister Elane, he is a shadow. When he flickers out of being, disappearing in the bright sunlight, Cal moves faster than I thought possible, swinging out his arm in a wide arc like he’s throwing a haymaker punch.