An object whirs over my head toward the stage. I catch a glimpse of it—a blazing arrow—before it strikes one of the hanging silks. The fabric bursts into flames, a waterfall of orange cascading to the floor. More fire leaps into life where the screen fell. A second volley of arrows whistles over our heads, so close it stirs the air.
Onstage, the gazelle-dancer runs through the blaze, her puppet silhouette elongated and ghostly, a horrible mimicry of the performance she was meant to be giving.
Wren seizes my hand. “We have to get out,” she says, dragging me to my feet.
I barely hear her over the screams, the crackling burr of the flames. It’s shocking how quickly the fire has spread; the hall is lit in flickering gold.
I stumble to keep up. “W-what’s going on?”
“It’s an attack. They must be after the King.”
The stepped seats around us are deserted. Everyone has rushed to the exit at the back of the hall, causing a crush. Through the smoke, I spot Mistress Eira helping Zhen and Zhin, one of whom is limping. Ahead, Madam Himura marshals the rest of the girls.
There’s a gleam of dark lapis hair. As Madam Himura pushes her forward, Blue looks around. Tears stream down her cheeks, her face white.
Aoki’s fingers snap round my arm. “Lei!” she gasps. Her eyes are wide, the reflection of flames dancing within them.
“Don’t worry,” I say, gripping her hand. “I’m here.”
I pull her along with me, following Wren to the end of the row. Just as we get there, there’s a thundering crack. Dislodged from the roof, a burning beam of wood crashes down, landing right across our path. Flames lash out from it like fiery whips.
I stagger back, instinctively pushing Aoki behind me.
“We’re not going to get out!” she sobs, squeezing my fingers tighter.
Wren whirls around. Without any explanation, she strides off again, picking her way easily down the cushion-strewn steps, in the direction of the stage.
“That’s the wrong way!” I yell. But she doesn’t change course.
Aoki and I take off after her into the smoke and fire-lit shadows. The roar of burning swells louder as we near the heart of the fire. And from under it, a new sound rises—the teeth-ringing clash of metal upon metal.
My stomach leaps. Swordfighting.
I’m just about to point this out to Wren when she comes to an abrupt stop. “It should be here,” she says, so low I almost don’t catch it. She drops to her knees, palming the floor.
“What should?” I shout back.
She doesn’t answer. After a few more seconds, she lets out a little hiss of triumph and jumps back up. At first I can’t see anything through the smoke, but she draws me into position at the edge of an opening in the floor. A trap door.
“It’s a short drop,” she says. “Move away when you’re down.”
I stare at her, blinking back the sweat stinging my eyes. “How did you know this was here?” I ask, but she turns to help Aoki, ignoring my question.
When she looks around to see if I’ve gone, she lets out an exasperated growl. “Just go!”
Jaw clenched, I move forward.
And drop into darkness.
The fall is short, as Wren promised. I land awkwardly. Pain shoots through my ankle, but I grit my teeth and roll out of the way as Aoki follows with a shout. I’m helping her to her feet when Wren lands, impossibly lightly, as graceful as a cat.
She strides down the tunnel, not even looking in the other direction. “This way,” she orders.
We hurry after her. Seconds later, there’s a fourth thud behind us.
The growl of a male voice.
“Stop.”
In one quick movement, Wren shoves us back. It’s dark here under the theater, the air still clogged with smoke, but some light sparks down from the flames above, casting eerie flickers through the gloom. It illuminates the intense calmness on Wren’s face as she strides past us toward the shadowy figure. Despite the heat, horrible shivers run across my skin as I see that her irises have turned white—pure, startlingly white—the whole of the eyes solid like ice. Fire reflects off them, sliding yellow flames on white.
“Leave us,” she tells the figure. “The King isn’t here.”
And I flinch—because her voice is different, too. It has a deep echo to it, as though many Wrens were speaking through her, and in the space where her words hang in the air, there’s a current of coldness.
The only answer is the screech of steel as the man draws his blade from its scabbard.
With a cry, he moves forward. Wren ducks as the sword slices through the air. The man raises it again, thrusting toward her.
She dances out of his way. Rolls to field a third blow. She dips, skating away from another parry, then with a whirl of her silk robes she jumps. Her left leg flies up and catches the man on the shoulder.
He staggers. Recovers. Loosening yet another battle cry, he lunges at her with a curving cut of his blade.
Wren is too quick for him; too quick for anyone. The way she moves is unnatural, her hair and robes flowing around her as if sifting through water, her movements fluid and precise. She leaps easily aside. While he’s still propelled forward from the momentum of his strike, she moves behind him and hooks an arm around his neck. He lets out a startled cry as she knocks the sword from his hand and catches the blade, turning it toward him—
And sinks it into his chest.
It happens so quickly, so smoothly, that the man doesn’t seem to comprehend at first what has occurred. His mouth is stuck in a surprised, almost comical O. Then he lets out a deep, awful groan. His face slackens. One hand grasps weakly at the sword, but his fingers slip on the handle, coming away slick with blood, and he rocks forward, limbs limp.
Wren lowers him to the floor. Her hands make the sky gods salute over his slumped body before she looks up at me, still with that eerie white stare.
In an instant, her eyes return to their normal black-brown. The focused expression drops from her face. She gets to her feet. “Lei,” she starts, coming toward me with her hands held out.
If it’s meant as a calming gesture, it has the opposite effect. Her palms are dark with blood, and I jerk away from them, a ragged shudder rippling down my spine.
“You’re Xia,” I say in a hollow voice that doesn’t sound like my own.
She wipes her hands on her dress. “I already told you—”
“No. I mean, you’re Xia.”
Because I’m not talking about what she’s already told me about being born to the warrior clan. She’s not just Xia by heritage.
She’s a warrior.
Not just by blood, but in practice.
We stare at each other through the shifting smoke. It stings my eyes, and I double over, coughing. The smoke is growing thicker, pooling the tunnel in dark, swirling coils.
“We have to get out of here,” Wren says, turning. “Where’s Aoki?”
I spin around. It takes me a few seconds to make out her slumped form on the floor. At once, I hurry to her side, pressing two fingertips under the curve of her jawbone.
“Is she all right?” Wren asks.
A pulse flutters against my touch, weak but steady. “I—I think so. She must have fainted.”
Reaching past me, Wren threads an arm under Aoki’s back and slings her over one shoulder in an easy movement. “Let’s go.”