Corien stopped in a pentagonal plaza, each side marked by soaring arcades of white stone, exquisitely symmetrical. At each corner stood a broad pillar topped with a statue of an angel in flight or in battle. On the plaza’s far side, several angelic guards flanked a set of broad black doors.

Corien released her to throw up his arms. Around them, the gaping crowd hushed. Some reached for him; others fell to their knees.

“Elysium!” he cried. “Your rot will be cut away! Your filth will be scrubbed clean! Every lie you have told, every secret you have kept from me, will be revealed!” He turned, letting them all look at the shining white glory of his face, its mad grin. “For even a kind master must sometimes beat his hounds to remind them who holds the chain.”

The crowd shifted, their smiles dimming.

Vaera Bashta’s horns sounded once more—the culling’s final call.

“Behold!” Corien cried, laughter shaking his voice. “And be cleansed!”

Then the black doors swung open, revealing a dark, toothless mouth, stone steps descending into shadows.

The gathered crowd understood at once. Their screams rose like the cries of hunted animals baying in dumb fear. They shoved past each other, pushed down the slow and trampled them. A great crush of bodies, fleeing fast.

But not fast enough.

Out of the doors poured a stream of darkness—bent and gaunt, scabbed and howling. Not crawlers, not cruciata, but humans who had been kept too long underground. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Beyond the plaza sounded the clank and grind of more doors opening, the distant swell of screams.

Horror flooded Eliana in cold waves. She stepped back, but Corien was behind her. He caught her arms and pressed his cheek to hers.

“I told them they could do anything they wanted.” His whisper shook with terrible choked mirth. “I slipped inside each of their minds and told them that if they wanted to be free of their cells forever, they would have to impress me. I do so like being entertained.”

Eliana thought of Remy and felt her gorge rise. “Why are you doing this?”

He turned her gently. “Because of you, Eliana,” he said, as if it were obvious. “You’re keeping secrets from me. I know it. That’s fine. I keep secrets from you too. But I can’t let you go unpunished for it. And I wonder if fighting through streets painted red with blood will awaken you as I cannot. It matters little to me how many in this city are killed today because of you, but I’m sure it matters to you. My tenderhearted princess. The Furyborn Child, I’ve heard them call you. Evocative. I do appreciate a poetic turn of phrase.”

He gestured to one of the guards in their escort, who handed him a parcel wrapped in cloth. Corien pressed it into Eliana’s hands and kissed her cheek.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t let anyone kill you. But the rest of them…”

In a blink, he was gone, as were the guards. Alone, unmissable in her red gown bright as blood, she immediately felt dozens of eyes upon her.

The shape of the bundle she held was familiar. Quickly, she unwrapped it.

Arabeth. Nox. Whistler. Tuora and Tempest.

Her knives, clean and sheathed, clipped to a leather weapons belt. How she hated him for gifting them to her. Even in this chaos, on this awful night, she was glad to see them. Her only surviving friends.

Mouth dry, hands shaking, she clipped the belt around her waist and ran. Elbowed her way through the teeming crowd, shoved past the people who recognized her and grabbed at her skirts. One wouldn’t let go—a wizened old man in iridescent brocaded finery. He grabbed her sash, pulled her to him.

“Help us!” Drops of blood already painted his face. He groped for her castings. “Destroy them!”

Eliana whipped Arabeth from her sheath and sliced him across his chest. He staggered back, cursing, and released her. She turned and fled, having no sense of where to run but unwilling to reach out for the Prophet. Corien would still be nearby. He was no marque; he could not vanish into thin air. He had simply concealed himself.

She pumped her legs faster, her muscles already trembling. She had grown stronger during her weeks with the Prophet, but her former strength was still a distant memory. How the Dread of Orline would have laughed to see her now.

Exiting the long arcade, gritting her teeth against the burn of her abused bare feet, she pushed her way down one street, then turned down another before emerging into another plaza, this one much larger than the first. Two metal hatches in the stone sat open. She raced past the nearest one just as a pale woman with ropes of matted hair jumped out of it. A hand grabbed her ankle. She fell hard, tore strips of skin from her hands. Turned around and plunged Arabeth into the woman’s throat. A strangled cry, and the woman collapsed, clutching the red river of her neck. Eliana rolled out from under her, yanked Arabeth free, and pushed herself to her feet. Her scraped palms stung; she wiped sweat from her eyes.

A thump behind her. Eliana spun around, ducked the wild blow of another prisoner—a man with scarred fair skin, a white knife in his hand. His blade caught her arm, cut a thin stripe to her elbow.

She cried out, ducked his second blow, thrust Arabeth at his neck. But he was fast. He struck Arabeth out of the air with his own knife, then pounced on her, knocking her to the ground. Her vision flickered. He pawed at her gown, dragged his tongue across her face. His breath was rancid, like meat left out to rot.

She let him slobber at her throat as she gathered her strength, then jammed her knee into his groin. He howled with pain, and she grabbed Nox, plunged the fat blade into the man’s concave stomach.

He fell atop her, the warm rush of his blood soaking her gown. She pushed him off, Nox in hand, found Arabeth smiling her crooked smile on the white flagstone, and ran.

But there was no escaping Vaera Bashta. Everywhere she looked, ragged prisoners pounced and clawed, their wild cries tearing the air into strips. Two men went tumbling down a staircase, then scrambled after a clattering pistol.

Eliana didn’t see who reached it first, but she heard the gunshot as she raced past. A boy darted past her, climbed up a drainpipe. The shape of his body jolted her, and for a moment, though his skin was darker, she thought it was Remy. An icy fist closed around her heart, squeezing hard as she ran. She hoped she would not find Remy. She hoped he was hiding in some gutter or under a staircase in the quiet dark. What would she do if she turned a corner and saw him changed? No longer the brother she had known, but a killer who dealt in blood instead of stories?

The thought battered her as she ran, a terrible whirling fear that rose in her like a current. She felt a sting at her palms and glanced down to see her castings faintly aglow.

She fisted her hands closed around them and ran up a broad flight of white steps, then up a narrow staircase set in the wall of a large apartment building with cruciata gargoyles yawning at each corner. She climbed until she found a high terrace, its walls frosted with scrolling white stonework. The air was quieter there, Elysium’s screams a distant cacophony. Under an arbor draped in ivy, she crouched, heart pounding, Arabeth clutched tightly in her right hand. She breathed until she felt it was safe, until the blood pulsing in her ears had slowed. Then, she formed a single clear thought: