All around us, the court erupts in a roar. The drummers beat harder, stirring the frenzy. I don’t know whether the crowd is pretending to be excited for the King’s benefit; unlike at the koyo party, there is a mix of castes and positions here. But my stomach lurches anyway. The whole thing is like a performance, with the crowd willing participants. I thread my fingers through Wren’s. No one’s paying attention to us, their focus all on the stage, and I need her right now, need the familiar warmth of her hands to ground me, to calm my already frantic heart from spiraling so far out of control that it breaks free—and me with it.
I want to scream. Thrash. Run at the King and tear that cruel smile off his face.
Blank, beige-colored masks have been strapped over the assassins’ faces, curving creepily over their foreheads and noses to leave only the small lines of their mouths underneath. Another trick of this awful performance. Hide the faces of the people you’re about to kill, so they don’t seem human.
Then I think of the slaves at the koyo party. The woman on the bridge the night of the Unveiling Ceremony, her head caved in by a demon guard. Maybe it wouldn’t make a difference even if the masks were off. It seems that to most demons, being Paper caste already makes you less than human.
The executioners are three Moon caste demons. There is a gray-coated wolf-man; a hulking crocodile demon with leathery, russet-scaled skin; and the white fox female who escorted me to the King’s room that night. They must be the King’s personal guards. Dull light glints off their long armored overcoats as they lead the assassins to the stage. While the other two drop to their knees to face the King in silence, the assassin being led by the wolf struggles against his bindings. He’s shouting, lurching toward the throne. Even from here I can see the slash of red around the man’s throat from where the golden collar digs in. It must be agony, but he keeps rearing forward, screaming words I can’t make out over the braying crowd as the King regards him coolly.
The wolf soldier jerks the chain back. He slams his foot down on the man’s back, forcing him to the floor, before dragging him onto the stage. I get a view of the wolf demon’s face for the first time as he turns and my breath hitches.
It’s Wren’s wolf.
So that’s why he seemed familiar—the Unveiling Ceremony. He stood at the King’s side along with the fox and the crocodile demon.
I turn to Wren. “That’s him, isn’t it? The wolf you were with that night.” When she hesitates, I say, “Please. No more lies.”
Her lips part. Then she answers stiffly, “His name is Kenzo Ryu. Major Ryu. One of the King’s personal guards. He oversees all the royal armies and advises the King on military tactics.”
“And the other two?”
“The crocodile is General Ndeze. The white fox is General Naja. She’s the highest-ranking female in the kingdom.”
My brow furrows. “What about the Demon Queen?”
“Until she gives the King a male heir,” Wren replies, “she’s pretty much insignificant.”
A thread of pity runs under her words.
“You don’t think she will?”
“I’m not sure she can. There are rumors about the King’s… ability.” She shoots me a sideways look. “No one would dare speak it here, but apparently some of the clans have given him a nickname. The Empty King.”
It takes me a moment to understand. His fertility. Or rather, lack of it. A hazy memory returns of that first lunch in Mistress Eira’s suites when Chenna asked whether the Demon Queen had produced any children for the King. Blue and Mariko had looked aghast. They must have heard the rumors before they arrived at the palace and couldn’t believe Chenna would approach the subject so boldly.
Suddenly the King’s anger makes even more sense. Not just anger—desperation. Because what is a King without an heir?
A warm, feather-light feeling rises in my belly.
Because what could Ikhara be without a Demon King?
Just then, the crowd falls silent as the King rises to his feet. He marches forward, his gold-plated hoof-fall punctuating the tense hush, a more controlled swagger in his gait than the last time I saw him. His gaze roams slowly over the crowd. I catch a glimpse of his arctic-blue eyes, the ugly smile on his handsome face.
“My loyal subjects, my fellow demons and humans.” Magically amplified, his voice booms out, echoing off the walls. “It brings me no joy to stand before you today. Executions are ugly events—almost as ugly as the crimes from which they are born. As such, I could tell you that it would be better to close your eyes now. To turn away when the points of the blades pierce the black hearts of these criminals before us.” The King rolls his shoulders back, chin tilting, voice gaining strength. “But that is the coward’s way! Instead, we must watch. We must observe. To remind us of everything that has been built under the blessed rule of the Demon King. A rule that I share with each and every one of you. Because it is only together, demons and humans, good citizens of all eight provinces, working alongside one another in peace and alliance with all in their rightful place, that we can keep our kingdom strong!”
While the crowd cheers at this, I grind my jaw. With all in their rightful place. I know exactly where he believes Paper castes’ place to be.
“When an attack like the one masterminded by these anarchists occurs,” the King continues, shouting to be heard over the noise, “it is an affront to our unity. To the world we have built so tirelessly over these past two centuries, with our blood and sweat and tears and hope. And we must come together in that very unity to bring down those who try to destroy us.” He clasps two fists, raises them to the sky. “Today we demonstrate that ours is a power that cannot be broken!”
The noise of the crowd mounts, almost violent, a deep, wild roar. Wren and I don’t join in, but I spot Aoki’s shining face at the front of the viewing platform, her fists raised in the air with the others.
It hits me like a punch to the gut.
When the crowd has finally calmed down, the King strides up to the assassins. He bends down to face them. “You failed,” he says simply.
They don’t react. But just as he’s about to turn away, the assassin who was giving the wolf trouble earlier pulls on his binds, neck arced upward, and spits in the King’s face.
The crowd bellows. I brace myself, expecting the King to shout or strike the man. But his expression is composed. Calmly, he wipes his face with the back of one sleeve and smooths down his robes. Then he settles back onto the throne, his face cold.
His voice colder. “Executioners, prepare your weapons.”
The crocodile, fox, and wolf soldiers pick up their swords, the crowd’s braying growing louder. Each jian is long and thin with a jeweled hilt. The blades glint silver in the lowering light as the soldiers step behind the assassins to clear the view for the King. It’s almost dusk. As the sun dips beyond the palace walls, braziers around the stage burst suddenly into light, illuminating the scene in an eerie parallel of the attack on the theater.
Wind whips the flames sideways. I taste smoke in the air.
Shaking, I clutch Wren’s hand tighter.
The soldiers draw back their swords—