Ten minutes later, my stomach is still churning when we pass through a set of tall gates into a barren plaza. A single road cuts down the center. Ahead looms a grand fortress, carved from flecked rock dark as a raven’s coat. Banners marked with the King’s bull-skull symbol snap in the wind. On every balcony and along the base of the building, guards stand watch, weapons at the ready. The quiet is uneasy, and the hoof-fall of the oryx demons echoes through the desolate square, my own pulse matching the rhythm and even their weight, each beat so heavy and terse it’s like my heart is clamping around a stone.
As we make our approach, I flex my fingers, trying to bring blood back to them. My muscles are as frozen as the rock of the royal palace looks.
Our procession comes to a stop at the bottom of a grand set of marble stairs leading up to a high, vaulted entranceway. At first everything is still. Then a band of gold unfurls itself from the entranceway. In one luxurious sweep, it rolls down the staircase, viscous and fluid, like some kind of charmed waterfall, and sure enough, I pick up the telltale vibration of magic in the air.
The door of my carriage swings open. “Mistress Lei-zhi,” greets a servant, holding out a hand to help me down.
The golden spill has painted the ground around the carriages in a shimmering metallic carpet. As my feet meet the floor, I look down to see ripples flowing out around me. But despite the beauty of it, I’m still reeling from what just happened on the bridge, and I follow the rest of the girls up the stairs, eyes trained on my feet to avoid the stares of the guards.
The world seems to grow even quieter when we enter the palace, though maybe I’m imagining it, the hush that sinks over us, reverent almost. As we march, I take in our surroundings in silent awe. There are echoing halls and narrow corridors. Indoor gardens with magical ceilings that mimic the night sky. Long staircases that wind steeply from floor to floor. Everything is carved out of the same black stone as the exterior, and though undeniably beautiful, it gives the place a clammy, imposing feel, like a mausoleum.
I think of the Paper Girls who came before me. The dreams of theirs that might have died within these very walls.
We have been walking for over twenty minutes when we are finally told to stop. A vaulted archway looms before us, the room beyond hidden by a heavy black curtain.
We’re still in a line ordered by our names. In front of me, Chenna’s thick hair falls down in its usual braid, though tonight it has been threaded with tiny silver flowers that make it look as if she’d been dancing between the galaxies, catching stars. Her shoulders rise and drop with shallow breaths. I’m about to step forward, offer some words of comfort, when there’s a groan behind me.
“Oh, gods,” Mariko moans. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
I pivot round to find her doubled over, her face white.
“Take a deep inhale,” I say, laying a hand on her arm, but she shoves me away.
“I don’t need the help of a peasant!” she snaps.
I draw back. “Fine, then.” I’m about to turn away when, over Mariko’s bowed head, Wren catches my gaze.
I freeze. She looks so astonishing it’s almost unreal, as though she’d slipped out of a painting perfectly formed, a thing of beauty, of art—of bright, vivid life in this cold, still place. The design of her cheongsam is the exact opposite of mine. Where the collar of mine is high, hers runs low, exposing the deep shadow of her cleavage. My dress has a slit up the side; hers is tight all the way down her legs, emphasizing their length and muscled shape. Unlike my sheer fabric, hers is a dark gunmetal silver, dangerous and enticing, evocative of armor.
Faintly, I remember what Lill said about our dresses representing our personalities. Underneath my wonder at her beauty, curiosity stirs.
As usual, Wren is the one to break eye contact. But to my surprise, she does so to lean forward to speak into Mariko’s ear. “I don’t know about you,” she murmurs, “but I have never seen a peasant who looked like that.” She looks up at me, a half smile touching her lips. “Now you look ready,” she says, just as a gong sounds from beyond the archway.
I whip back round to see the curtain floating aside. “Heavenly Master and honorable members of the court,” a magnified voice announces from the room beyond. “Presenting this year’s Paper Girls!”
In front of me, Chenna straightens, rolling her shoulders back. I follow her resolve, releasing a long exhale to steady myself as best as I can despite the spike of my pulse as, one by one, we step through the archway.
We emerge into a columned hall, deep and cavernlike, draped with garlands of vermilion silk. The walls look hollowed out of a marble cave. Rows of sheer steps on all sides lead down to a sunken pool. Ink-black water glitters with the reflection of lanterns overhead. From balconies ringing the room, hundreds of demon faces leer down at us. Our steps echo as we fan out in a row at the top of the steps, and I find it difficult to move, as if the expectant hush of the watching crowd had a weight, a solidity that thickens the atmosphere, lends an extra tug to gravity just here in this hall.
At first I keep my eyes low, trained on the floor. But something soon pulls their attention. Something draws them down the steps, across the pool, and to the podium on the far side. And I know before I see him what—or rather who—it will be.
The Demon King.
Lounging, almost, on his marbled gold throne. Or at least, there is something casual in the way he occupies it, some smug, almost irreverent quality to the way he sits, hips sloped a little too low, arms slung over the sides, head tilted back just enough to make it seem as if he were looking down at us even though we are much higher up the steps.
This is the first thing about him that surprises me. The King’s pose is particularly at odds with the formal, straight-backed stances of the three soldiers flanking him—a gray wolf-man, a huge moss-colored crocodile-man, and a white fox female, all Moon caste.
Also unexpected is how slender he is. Particularly in comparison with the crocodile demon who towers behind the throne, the King’s muscles are lean, roped, a bull’s strength bound through manlike limbs, and hidden under layered black robes with gold trim. In a fight between him and his crocodile guard, I wouldn’t rate the King’s chances very high… except. There is an energy about him. Coiled and alert, a magnetic pull that commands attention and power. Ice-blue eyes watch from under long lashes. Above his ears, thick horns unwind, etched with grooves inlaid with gold. And as I take in his face from a distance, there is a third thing that surprises me.
The King is handsome.
I was expecting an old King. Some weary, war-torn bull. But he looks young, not far past his teens. There’s an elegance to his face. Whereas General Yu’s was an ugly clash of imposing bull features, the King’s face is long, almost delicate in shape, with a defined jaw and wide, graceful mouth, a cupid’s bow peaking perfectly in its middle.
A lazy smile sharpens into a grin. The King leans forward, lantern light lending his walnut coat a glossy sheen. “My new Paper Girls,” he drawls. “Welcome.”
His voice is deep, heavy as night.
Quickly, we drop to the floor in low bows. The marble is cool against my palms. I feel the King’s gaze upon us like a touch and keep my head down, breathing hard.