“This is not the kind of trouble we need, Kell.”

“It was an accident.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

Hastra stood against the wall, looking as if he wanted to disappear. Up in the central arena, they were still cheering Kamerov’s name.

“Look at me,” snapped Rhy, pulling Kell’s jaw up so their eyes met. “You need to start losing now.” He started pacing again, his voice low even though he’d had Hastra clear the tent. “The nines is a point game,” he continued. “Top score in your group advances. With any luck, one of the others will take their match by a landslide, but as far as you’re concerned, Kamerov is going out.”

“If I lose by too much, it will look suspicious.”

“Well you need to lose by enough,” said Rhy. “The good news is, I’ve seen your next opponent, and he’s good enough to beat you.” Kell soured. “Fine,” amended Rhy, “he’s good enough to beat Kamerov. Which is exactly what he’s going to do.”

Kell sighed. “Who am I up against?”

Rhy finally stopped pacing. “His name is Stasion Elsor. And with any luck, he’ll slaughter you.”

* * *

Lila locked the door behind her.

She found her knives in a bag at the foot of the bed, along with the trinkets and the shard of stone. The men themselves were still asleep. By the looks of it—the empty bottles, the tangled sheets—they’d had a late night. Lila chose her favorite knife, the one with the knuckled grip, and approached the beds, humming softly.

How do you know when the Sarows is coming?

(Is coming is coming is coming aboard?)

She killed his two companions in their beds, but Ver-as-Is she woke, right before she slit his throat. She didn’t want him to beg; she simply wanted him to see.

A strange thing happened when the Faroans died. The gems that marked their dark skin lost their hold and tumbled free. The gold beads slid from Ver-as-Is’s face, hitting the floor like rain. Lila picked up the largest one and pocketed it as payment before she left. Back the way she’d come with her coat pulled tight and her head down, fetching the mask from the bin where she’d stashed it. Her wrists still burned, and her head still ached, but she felt much better now, and as she made her way toward the Wandering Road, breathing in the cool air, letting sunlight warm her skin, a stillness washed over her—the calm that came from taking control, from making a threat and following through. Lila felt like herself again. But underneath it all was a twinge, not of guilt or regret, but the nagging pinch that she was forgetting something.

When she heard the trumpets, it hit her.

She craned her neck, scouring the sky for the sun, and finding only clouds. But she knew. Knew it was late. Knew she was late. Her stomach dropped like a stone, and she slammed the helmet on and ran.

* * *

Kell stood in the center of the arena, waiting.

The trumpets rang out a second time. He squared his shoulders to the opposite tunnel, waiting for his opponent to emerge.

But no one came.

The day was cold, and his breath fogged in front of his mask. A minute passed, then two, and Kell found his attention flicking to the royal platform where Rhy stood, watching, waiting. Behind him, Lord Sol-in-Ar looked impassive, Princess Cora bored, Queen Emira lost in thought.

The crowd was growing restless, their attention slipping.

Kell’s excitement tensed, tightened, wavered.

His banner—the mirrored lions on red—waved above the podium and in the crowd. The other banner—crossed knives on black—snapped in the breeze.

But Stasion Elsor was nowhere to be found.

* * *

“You’re very late,” said Ister as Lila surged into the Arnesian tent.

“I know,” she snapped.

“You’ll never—”

“Just help me, priest.”

Ister sent a messenger to the stadium and enlisted two more attendants, and the three rushed to get Lila into her armor, a flurry of straps and pads and plates.

Christ. She didn’t even know who she was set to fight.

“Is that blood?” asked one attendant, pointing to her collar.

“It’s not mine,” muttered Lila.

“What happened to your wrists?” asked another.

“Too many questions, not enough work.”

Ister appeared with a large tray, the surface of which was covered in weapons. No, not weapons, exactly, only the hilts and handles.

“I think they’re missing something.”

“This is the nines,” said Ister. “You have to supply the rest.” She plucked a hilt up from the tray and curled her fingers around it. The priest’s lips began to move, and Lila watched as a gust of wind whipped up and spun tightly around and above the hilt until it formed a kind of blade.

Lila’s eyes widened. The first two rounds had been fought at a distance, attacks lobbed across the arena like explosives. But weapons meant hand-to-hand combat, and close quarters were Lila’s specialty. She swiped two dagger hilts from the tray and slid them underneath the plates on her forearms.

“Fal chas,” said Ister, just before the trumpets blared in warning, and Lila cinched the demon’s jaw and took off, the final buckles on her mask still streaming behind her.

* * *

Kell cocked his head at Rhy, wondering what the prince would do. If Elsor didn’t show, he would be forced to forfeit. If he was forced to forfeit, Kell would have the points to advance. Kell couldn’t advance. He watched the struggle play out across Rhy’s face, and then the king whispered something in his ear. The prince seemed to grow paler as he raised the gold ring to his mouth, ready to call the match. But before he could speak, an attendant appeared at the edge of the platform and spoke rapidly. Rhy hesitated, and then, mercifully, the trumpets rang.