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.