FOUR DAYS PASS. FOUR DAYS OF WAITING, holed up in the mazelike corridors of Paper House, speculating with the girls on the assassins and what must be happening outside the palace until there’s nothing new to discuss. Then, at lunch on the fifth day, Madam Himura tells us that the court has finally finished its interrogation of the attackers.

Just as Chenna predicted, there will be an execution.

The room goes quiet at the announcement. Zhen and Zhin swap dark looks, and Chenna quickly lifts one hand, forming the same prayer motion across her brow that I saw her make at the koyo party. Next to me, Aoki lets out a long exhale.

“Serves them right,” Blue says loudly. “Let the King show everyone what happens to those who oppose him.”

Mariko nods, though she stays mute, picking at her nails, fingers spread on the tabletop.

“The execution will take place at sundown tonight,” Madam Himura croaks. “Attendance is mandatory. You will return to your usual schedule the next day.”

I meet Wren’s warm-centered brown eyes across the table. I want to hear what she thinks, steal a moment of comfort from her words and her closeness. But Madam Himura sends us straight back to our rooms to begin yet another long sequence of preparations.

Usually, Lill has some freedom in what she dresses me in, provided she follows certain customs and expectations. But as she unfolds the robes I’m to wear to the execution, she tells me they were selected specifically by Madam Himura. “She was very strict about it,” Lill says. “For all the Mistresses.”

She doesn’t have to explain why she’s telling me this. As soon as I see the robes, I understand.

“It—it’s too cruel,” I say, almost whispering.

Lill avoids my eyes. “These are the King’s orders, Mistress.”

We don’t speak as she dresses me in the plain black robes. Black—not white. The very opposite, the very absence, of our kingdom’s mourning color.

It’s clear what the King’s message is. White is a color to be respected, and to be used for those we respect. Criminals don’t fall into that category. Instead we dress in black to demonstrate our indifference to the assassins’ suffering.

The thought that they’ll die looking out to this, a sea of night, doesn’t seem fair. Before leaving, I take an ivory ribbon from Lill’s box of silks and tie it round my wrist, making sure it’s hidden beneath my sleeve.

Our procession is somber as we make our way through the Outer Courts. There’s a heaviness about the palace this afternoon. Even the sky and trees seem gray, as though the smoldering air from the attack on the theater has settled over the whole of the palace, a veil of smoke. The streets are packed, but the only sounds are the dull treading of foot- and hoof-steps and the rustle of fabric, the metal chime of spirit-warding talismans, snatches of whispered conversations that the wind whips away.

When we get to Ceremony Court, my eyes widen at the sea of people filling the vast square. Everyone who lives at the palace must be here—there are thousands of humans and demons of all three castes. At the center of the court are a stage and a separate viewing platform for court members, headed by the King’s golden throne. The oryx carry us past the crowds, everything a whir of swirling ink-black robes. As soon as we arrive at the viewing platform, I go to Wren, pushing past jostling court officials craning for a better view.

She clasps my hand, low, so no one can see. Though she lets go a second later, she stays close. “Are you all right?”

I nod stiffly. “But I hate having to be here.”

“Me, too.” She takes something out of the fold of her robes just long enough to show it to me: a white flower, a tiny valley lily. Then she tucks it away. “It felt wrong,” she explains. “Coming here without something to pay my respects. Especially considering what happened in the tunnel.”

The sight of the flower sends a warm rush through my chest.

Carefully, I draw back my sleeve to reveal the ribbon at my wrist, and Wren’s face softens. She gives my fingers another squeeze.

It takes half an hour for the entirety of the palace to arrive, the King turning up last in an extravagant palanquin carried by eight oryx-demons. I don’t have a clear view of him through the thick crush of bodies as he settles on the throne, but even at this distance the sight of his curved horns makes the hairs on my arms lift. Somehow, I can tell he’s smiling.

Soon after, the carriages with the assassins arrive to the thunder of drumbeats. Each is pulled by a pair of muscled black horses and marked with silks of deep obsidian. They stop before the stage, the horses stamping, clouds of steam blowing from their nostrils. An expectant hush ripples through the crowd.

First, the executioners step out. The assassins follow, stumbling from the carriages, gold circles shackled to their necks like dog collars.

The skin at my wrists tingles. Their chains look similar to the ones the shaman put around my ankles and wrists when I was in isolation.

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—

The King raises his hand—

“Strike!”

I shut my eyes, but it’s too late. The image of the blades disappearing into the men’s torsos is there, a searing stain on the back of my eyelids. When I finally dare to look again, the assassins are slumped over, swords lanced through their chests.

Along with wearing black, the King sent out the order that we are not to make the sky gods salute to bless the assassins’ souls as they rise to the Heavenly Kingdom. But the crowd is packed tight, so Wren and I make the sign with our free hands—her left, my right—our thumbs crossing together, palms turned out.

All around comes cheering and shouting. But though the King is talking, I don’t hear a word. I can’t tear my eyes away from the assassins, the jian sticking up from their backs like three broken spines and blood blooming across their clothes, winding down to paint the floor with ribbons of deep scarlet. The way they’ve collapsed is reminiscent of fallen dolls, discarded by their petulant owner.

Wren’s heartbeat throbs against my palm, keeping time as anger rises within me. Hotter and fiercer than fear, stronger and surer than anything I’ve ever felt before, and as we stand hand in hand amidst the scream and bray of the crowd, there is no doubt when I promise myself that I will not give the King the chance to discard us.

One day, we will be the ones discarding him.

I go to Wren’s room late that night, the house wrapped in postmidnight hush. She’s awake when I come in, sitting up like she’s been expecting me. She opens her arms and we lie under the blankets, limbs entwined, but it’s not enough to stop the trembling, the wildness that’s been rattling through me ever since the execution.

Wren is the one to break the silence. Her breath tickling my hair, she fans her hands across my shoulder blades and says, “I heard something about the assassins.”

“What?” I murmur, face pressed into her neck.

“They were allied with the court. There are rumors that Steel and Moon officials were involved, too, and guards.”

The news buoys me. “Why didn’t the King say anything?”

“Because it would betray his weakness. It would be admitting he’s vulnerable within his own palace. That there are those who defy him even in his own court.”

“There are,” I say, fingers threading with hers as I lift my face to kiss her. “Us.”

The shadows are deep when I leave Wren’s room. I head to the bathing courtyard to splash some water on my face—the memory of blood and gleaming blades still clings to my skin like dirt. But at the entrance to the courtyard, I stop.

A girl is sitting on the steps.

Moonlight catches on slender shoulders, the sheen of long, straight hair. The girl is hunched over, crying. It’s barely audible, but I’d recognize the stifled sound of it anywhere. What I don’t believe at first is who is doing the crying.

I pad forward tentatively. “Blue?”

She jerks at my voice, clambering to her feet at once. “Go away, Nine,” she hisses. Her usual scathing tone is dampened by tears. Her eyes are swollen, red-rimmed, but she doesn’t wipe her tears away, as if ignoring them would make them disappear.

Gods. She’s so obstinate she’ll even defy herself.

“No,” I say.

She looks as though I’d struck her.

“I know you hate me,” I go on, standing my ground. “And I’m not really that keen on you, either. But you’re hurting. You shouldn’t have to go through this alone. No one should.”

“I’m not alone,” she sneers.

My eyes sweep the empty courtyard. “Sorry. Didn’t realize you could see ghosts.” Then I say, more gently, “Look, I’m sure Mariko would—”

“I don’t want her seeing me like this,” Blue blurts out, blinking rapidly as tears keep coursing down her cheeks.

“There’s no shame in being upset,” I tell her, and take a step closer. “What’s wrong? Was it the execution?”

She turns away. Shakes her head. “The attack.”

“At the theater?”

She nods jerkily.

“Is your father all right? Did something happen?”

A laugh spurts from her lips. The sound snaps through the quiet, a bitter bark that sends tingles down the backs of my arms. “Oh, he’s fine. Not that he checked if I was. Not that he cares.”

“I’m sure he cares, Blue. He’s your father—”

Her voice pitches. “All that means is I’m a pawn to use in his game! He only cares about rising through the ranks of the court. Giving me to the King was just a step to secure his promotion.” She lets out another mad laugh. “I’m the only one of us with parents in the palace, and they haven’t visited me once.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, reaching for her shoulder. But she shrugs my hand away.

“I don’t need your pity, Nine!”

“It’s not pity,” I retort, my face hot. “It’s understanding.” I scrunch my hands. “Gods, why are you like this all the time? You’re so adamant to put yourself apart from the rest of us when we’re all going through exactly the same thing. The rest of us are trying to look after one another, but you keep trying to divide us.”

Blue’s top lip peels back. “We’re not going through the same thing. It’s nothing similar.”

“Are you or are you not stuck here, forced to serve a man you don’t care about?”

“You don’t get it at all,” she says in such a low hiss I barely catch it.

“What don’t I get?”

“The difference is you aren’t expected to like it.” She clamps her lips together, jerking her head stiffly to one side. “I have a family here, a father who is important in the court. I can’t go around refusing the King or speaking out against being a Paper Girl. And I keep thinking, maybe now I’ve been chosen, maybe now my father is one step closer to his promotion, he’ll finally be happy with me.” Her voice cracks. “I’ve done everything he asked. Been the perfect daughter. But from the way my parents act, most of the time you wouldn’t even know they have one.”

“Oh, Blue,” I breathe. But she backs away, her wet cheeks shining in the moonlight.

“If you dare—if you tell anyone about this…”

“I won’t,” I promise, and I mean it.

But she pushes past me as though I were the one threatening her, leaving me alone with the eerie hush of the empty barrels and the rustle of wind through the swaying bamboo.