The arena bursts into a scene of chaos. All across the stands, patrons and their fighters leap into combat, attacking Inquisitors wherever they stand, sending the people into a panic. Some of the Inquisitors still on the stone pathway in the arena’s center look poised to join the duel between Teren and Enzo—but with the two now identical, they can’t seem to tell which one is which.

Enzo doesn’t wait. He leaps forward, dagger raised. Teren manages to hold up his sword just in time to meet Enzo’s blade, but in his sudden weakness, he can’t deflect it. The two tumble backward onto the ground—Teren shrieks as Enzo’s blade finally makes contact, white hot and sharp, slicing deep into Teren’s shoulder and burning his flesh. Enzo’s second blade seeks out his heart. In a rage, Teren slashes out at Enzo. Even now, he still manages to force the prince to dance away. He staggers to his feet. It takes me a moment to realize that he’s laughing. He notices Violetta and me crouched at the edge of the platform. He scowls.

“About time you made your move,” he shouts through the chaos.

The words have scarcely left his mouth when I notice that Inquisitors, hundreds—thousands—of them, are flooding into the arena. We were ready for him—but he was ready for us too. The people around us leap to their feet, screaming, and scramble for the nearest exit, but Inquisitors fence everyone in. It will be a bloodbath in here, whether or not we win.

I narrow my eye. The darkness building in me is overwhelming now, feeding on an entire arena’s worth of terror and fury. I reach out, take hold of that energy, find Teren, and pull.

He freezes in mid-attack, then falls to his knees. He shrieks in pain as I conjure the most agonizing illusion I can muster. Enzo engulfs him in flames, then lunges forward, aiming at his eyes.

This is it. My heart leaps in anticipation. He’s going to kill Teren.

Something cold pushes violently back against my energy. I gasp. Teren’s fighting me. My illusion on him wavers, then breaks. Violetta puts a hand on her forehead and stumbles backward. “I can’t hold on,” she says hoarsely to me, before collapsing to her knees. Out in the arena, Teren sucks in a deep breath of relief as his burned skin starts to heal over. He starts fighting back. The window to fatally injure him is closing. I look at my sister. Her eyes roll back, and, exhausted, she faints on the path. My concentration flickers.

“Violetta,” I shout, grabbing her arm. Then I glance to where Enzo is fighting Teren. My illusion over Enzo has vanished too, and his dark-robed figure contrasts starkly against Teren’s white uniform.

“Leave her!” When I look up, I see Michel standing over us, his eyes wild. He has joined us on the platform. He hoists Violetta up against him. “We’ve broken through one of the entrances—I’ll get her out. Go!”

I hesitate for a split second before nodding. Then Michel spirits her away, and I turn back to the arena. Never in my life have I seen so many Inquisitors. Their figures swarm the stands, clashing with Enzo’s fighters. In the chaos, I climb over the short wall separating the seats from the arena’s center, land on the stone path dividing the water, veil myself in invisibility, and rush toward where Enzo and Teren are fighting. My concentration snaps back into place, fueled by the panic, and Enzo again turns into a mirror image of Teren.

But I’m getting tired too. My powers are starting to slip out of my control.

I stop a short distance from them. Then I press my hands together, reach out, and weave a circle of energy threads around Teren. I conjure a dozen versions of himself, identical in every way, each of them lunging at the real Teren with daggers drawn. The illusion is brief, but it works. Teren hesitates for a moment, suddenly unsure of where to look. His enemy is everywhere all at once.

Enzo—the real Enzo—grabs Teren around his neck. He tries to stab at his eyes, but Teren manages to twist his face away at the last second. Enzo’s blade slices across his neck, leaving a deep gash. Immediately, it starts to heal. Teren lets out a gurgling growl and slams his head backward, forcing Enzo off him, then staggers forward and spits blood from his mouth. I can’t hold the dozen illusions anymore. The figures disappear, once again leaving Enzo alone with Teren.

Teren is breathing heavily. Even he has his limits. His eyes lock on to me again. I realize that I’m too tired to hold my own invisibility illusion.

“There you are,” he says, his voice low and raspy, his chiseled face turned into a frightening snarl. His attention flickers away from Enzo as he dashes for me. “Little illusion worker.”

Then it happens.

Teren lunges for me. His sword slashes me deep across my chest, slicing through my robes and into my skin. Pain hits me everywhere. I fall. My head hits the ground hard enough to send the world spinning. Suddenly, everything slows. I lift my hand and see it stained with my own blood. I try to reach for my energy, but everything moves too slowly, and my thoughts form in disjointed pieces. Broken illusions flash around me, my powers gone unsteady and uncontrolled. Through it, Enzo rushes forward to step between the two of us. I have . . . hit my head . . . Teren rushes at me with his sword. All I see are his pale, furious eyes. A nightmare.

I strike blindly out with my illusions. Teren’s there, blurred before me. I try to scream at him—but I cannot form the thought. My powers spark wildly out of control. Teren’s face changes into Dante’s, then back again. A memory clicks into place. I suddenly see before me a million glittering threads. I killed him in that dark alley, on the night the king died. I killed with an illusion of extreme pain.

I reach down into my chest, find the last of my strength, and pull on Teren’s energy. Let him feel agony like he’s never known. Let him suffer. I put everything I have into this, letting my hatred of him go unchecked.

Teren lets out a wrenching cry of pain. He falls to his knees.

Wait. This isn’t right.

I blink, confused, trying to clear my hazy thoughts. My illusions continue to work on him, wild and uncontrolled and untethered, blind. Blind. Then I realize—why am I able to affect Teren? He cannot be injured. And Violetta isn’t here to stop him.

And that’s when I realize, in horror, that I have attacked Enzo instead. Enzo was the one who had blurred toward me—he had moved toward me in an attempt to protect me. Enzo is the one that I sent staggering to his knees.

I yank my powers back instantly, but it is too late. Teren—the real Teren—seizes the moment. He takes his sword. He plunges it deep into Enzo’s chest. It runs all the way through, the bloody point emerging from Enzo’s back right between his shoulder blades.

No.

Enzo lets out a terrible gasp. Teren’s mouth tightens in triumph. He clutches Enzo’s robes in one fist, then yanks him closer, shoving the sword in deeper. I cannot move. I cannot think. I can’t even scream. My shaking hand reaches out for him, but I am too weak to do anything else. All my powers—undone in the one moment when they would have mattered the most. I struggle to regain control, but it makes no difference now. Enzo trembles on the blade. Teren pulls him close and bends toward his ear. Somehow, in the midst of the arena’s chaos, the Lead Inquisitor’s words sound clear.

“I win,” he says. For a moment, their eyes lock—Teren’s, pale, pulsing, mad; Enzo’s, dark, scarlet, dying. Then he pulls his blade out. Enzo collapses to the ground. I run to his fallen figure, as if this might just be an illusion—but he stays still and unmoving. Somewhere, Teren’s voice reaches me. “Thank you for your help,” he says.

I put my hands on Enzo’s face. His name falls from my lips, hoarse with pain. I had lashed out at him with all of my fury—but was it rage meant for Teren, or was it really my internalized anger at Enzo, for using me, for leading me on? Maybe there’s still a chance. He fights, with the last of his strength, to return my gaze. What do I see there? Is it betrayal? I’m sobbing now—tears fill my vision and spill down my cheek. There is nothing to be done.

Enzo looks at me. He blinks rapidly as he tries to say something, but blood froths at the edges of his mouth. He coughs. Red speckles land on my arm. I look on in disbelief as his eyes meet mine one last time. Then his life fades away. Just like that.

My mind goes blank. The world turns silent.

The sky above us flickers, then turns a furious shade of scarlet, a vision of blood, deep and dark. I crouch, my hands ripping at the ground, my emotions unwinding, my energy surging to a level I’ve never felt before. My gaze fixes on Teren. I hurl myself helplessly against his invincible power, trying desperately to grasp on to him in some way, to hurt him, hurt him, hurt him. But I can’t. I’m useless.

He could slay me right now, if he wanted to. But he no longer wears his eerie smile or his cold amusement. He looks serious, grave, and thoughtful.

“You don’t belong with them, Adelina Amouteru,” he says. “You belong with me.”

Somehow, somewhere—a curtain of wind lifts me up into the air. I struggle against it, wanting to stay in the arena. I want to destroy Teren. But I feel Lucent’s arms wrap around me, then her pulling me up onto the back of a balira. Below us lies the wreckage of the arena, the dead and dying, the smoke and carnage, the white cloaks littered in clusters, the bodies of the dead who had fought for Enzo.

None of that matters now. The prince is dead.

Teren Santoro

Teren looks up at the fleeing Elites as they spirit away the prince’s body. Behind them are Inquisitors on the backs of baliras, chasing them down. Teren watches a moment longer, picturing Enzo’s dead face as they go. The young prince’s face was gray and lifeless, eyes shuttered, heart still. Blood stains the ground of the arena’s platform.

Teren stays quiet. He does not smile. Enzo, whom he remembered from childhood, the boy who always defended him in front of his father. What a shame that he was the Reaper, all along. It had to be done. Dirty malfetto. Now the world is a better place, and Giulietta can rule. Teren’s face remains a portrait carved from stone, but deep in his chest, he feels a twinge of loss.

What a shame.

Trust is when we plummet into the depths of an abyss and
reach out for each other’s hands.

—Amaderan Poetry, various authors

Adelina Amouteru

I fade in and out of a strange, disturbed sleep filled with ghosts. Or illusions? I can’t tell the difference anymore.

Maybe there is none.

Sometimes I see my father hovering over me, his face distorted and smiling. Other times, Violetta’s tear-streaked face appears. And Enzo. Enzo. He hovers there, a little too far away, and I cry out for him, struggling against invisible bonds to reach him. He’s alive. He’s right there. Shouts come from somewhere in the distance. Hold her down! I’m in too much of a daze to dwell on anything other than the enormous creature carrying us across the sky and the silence and stillness of those riding with me. I want to open my mouth and say something. Anything. But my state of half consciousness muzzles me. I run a hand along my chest and feel a thick bandage there, trying gamely to lessen my blood loss.

My vision blurs as I try to look around at the others, but I can’t focus enough to see who they are. I look back up into the evening sky and close my eye. The world has faded to gray with Enzo’s passing. The only feeling I’m aware of is Violetta’s hand in mine, squeezing, and I squeeze back with what little strength I have. A few strands of my hair crisscross over my vision—they are dark gray, the darkest they’ve ever been.

I have a vague recollection of us leaving the balira’s back, and of my changing surroundings. Evening light slants through tree canopies, and fireflies dance in the darkness. Occasionally, I glimpse a rolling hill, a gentle valley full of deepening green. The gates of an estate. The outskirts of Estenzia?

A wave of nausea hits me, and I close my eye again. Sleep threatens to pull me under.

The next time I come to, I’m lying in a twilit bedchamber, the air blue and waning, turning into night. For an instant, I think I’ve gone back in time—I’ve returned to the moment when the Daggers first saved me and took me to the Fortunata Court. It even looks like the same chamber. If I wait long enough, I’ll see the maid come in and smile at me, and Enzo will follow in her wake, his dark eyes pensive and wary, lit with slashes of scarlet. He will lean forward and ask me if I want to hurt those who have wronged me.

Slowly, the chamber shifts until it looks like an unfamiliar room. My illusions are happening spontaneously again. It takes me a long moment to realize that this is not the Fortunata Court, but some strange estate I’ve never been in, and that I’m not alone at all, but surrounded by the Daggers. I groan, then turn to look at the person sitting closest to me.

The instant I move, everyone backs cautiously away. Blades appear in their hands. I freeze. Their gesture sends a brief course of excitement through me, their fear stimulating my energy. Then the feeling vanishes, replaced with a sharp pain. My former friends. They’re afraid of me.

The person sitting closest to me is Raffaele. He is the only one who doesn’t jump away. His bruises and injuries are still prominent, his cheekbone blue and purple, his lip marred by a thin cut. Scars circle his neck. When Gemma approaches to pull him away from me, though, he holds up a hand and wordlessly stops her. She backs away. I look at them all silently.

“Where’s my sister?” I finally whisper. My first words.

“Resting.” Raffaele nods once at me when he sees my alarmed expression. “She’s well.”

The divide between me and the other Daggers is thick in the air. I realize through the fog in my head that they still aren’t sure what role I played in Enzo’s death. The words make me wince. My energy stirs, and Raffaele tightens his jaw.