WHEN I WAKE THE NEXT MORNING, I lift my fingertips to my mouth, still lying tangled in my sheets, eyes shut. My skin is warm and mussed from sleep. There’s a tingle in my lips where I press them, but otherwise there’s no hint of what happened just hours ago. At least, not physically. My mouth seems the same, my lips just as they were before: smooth, small, lonely. I brush my fingertips over them, hunting for Wren’s presence. Honeyed shafts of sunlight fall across my sheets. I forgot to close my shutters last night, and the warmth of the rays seems to indicate that the gods are aware of what occurred between me and Wren.

And some of them approve.

Stretching, I roll over with a yawn. My gaze lands on the shrine in the corner of my room. A trickle of unease slithers through me.

I’m not in a rush to find out what happens to us if any of them don’t.

When she comes to collect me for our morning lessons an hour later, Wren gives no outward indication of what passed between us last night. But once we’re outside, the other girls chatting easily around us, she slows her steps just enough for us to fall out of earshot.

“I can’t stop thinking about last night,” she murmurs, her beautiful black-brown eyes shining.

Her words are as sweet as a song. I can’t hide my grin. I chance a quick press of my shoulder against her arm, angling my face into her. As if on cue, Blue flicks her head round, and Wren and I spring apart, pretending to be very interested in the hems of our hanfu.

If I thought the day before our kiss was hard, the day after is a million times worse. It becomes a practice in patience, something Tien would no doubt say I have very little of. Time stretches out, infuriatingly slow. I’m longing for the night to come so we can get past whatever function we have that evening and I can once again be alone with Wren. But then Mistress Eira reminds us at dinner that we’ll be seeing the King at the shadow play performance we’re attending tonight.

Something dark and red hums through my veins at the mention of him.

Across the table, Aoki shoots me a concerned look. She must be remembering what I said to her at the koyo party about how I won’t let the King have me. She cocks her head, questioning, and I wrest a half smile to my face.

“Are you all right?” Wren whispers once the other girls sink back into conversation. She’s kneeling next to me, our thighs almost touching under the table.

“Yes,” I answer, and though my throat is narrow, I mean it. As a maid reaches across us to tidy the plates away, hiding us from view, I catch her fingers in mine. It’s just a moment—like all of our stolen touches. But it reminds me that I have the strength to defy the King, even in small, secret ways such as these.

After dinner, Lill picks a vivid orange cheongsam for me to wear to the performance, gold embroidery shimmering across the fabric. She adds a slash of vermilion paint on my lips. Then she slicks my hair back into an intricate braid, twining it with flame-colored ribbons.

“Now you match the leaves,” she grins, moving back to admire her work.

I lift a brow. “Isn’t this is a bit… much?”

“Mistress,” she says, serious, “the King still hasn’t called you since that night. Don’t you want him to notice you? To want you again?”

I quickly turn my cheek to hide my grimace. Sometimes I forget how young Lill is, but times like these remind me that she is just a girl. I recall how black and white the world seemed at eleven. How clear-cut life was, everything divided into good and bad, right and wrong, like two sides of a coin, and the edge between almost nonexistent, no bigger than a sliver. Lill believes I want the Demon King’s attention. That my earlier slip was just a mistake, a moment that overwhelmed me. She thinks I want him because surely I must.

Because I am a Paper Girl and he is my King.

We make the now-familiar journey to the Inner Courts. Shadow play is a long-standing tradition in our kingdom. In Xienzo we had performances during certain festivals, with wooden cutout puppets on sticks moved by actors hidden beneath a makeshift stage. A small brazier created the fire that silhouetted the puppets against the rice-paper screen. As we arrive at the theater and enter a tall, stepped room with a wide stage and columns of billowing silks hanging from the ceiling at staggered intervals, it’s clear that this will be a very different version of shadow play from the one I’m used to. Around the edges of the stage runs a deep recess, flames dancing from within.

“I’m a bit nervous to see the King again,” Aoki admits as we take our seats toward the back of the theater, her voice almost swallowed by the noise as the audience streams in, snatches of conversations and bursts of laughter rising around us. She frowns. “He seemed different at the koyo party. Do you remember?”

Of course I remember. The King’s drunken swagger. The human slaves he offered to the attending demons like a twisted kind of party favor.

“He hasn’t asked for any of us since then,” Aoki says. “He must be busy.”

I shrug. “It’s probably to do with the rebels. Or maybe the Sickness,” I add, sending a mental thanks to both for keeping him away.

Wren leans in on my other side. “The King talked to you about that?” she asks sharply. “What did he say?”

“Not much. Just that it’s getting worse. That nothing seems to be helping.”

She turns away, a glazed look frosting her eyes.

“What?” I press as Aoki turns to talk to Zhin beside her.

“It’s been going on for a while now,” Wren murmurs, her nose pinched in thought. “All the clans are concerned. Just before I came to the palace, my father was arranging a meeting with the most powerful clans from every province to discuss how to manage it.”

“Does he know what could be causing it?” I ask.

“Nothing for certain. One of his theories is that it’s to do with qi-draining. Some overuse of magic that is putting Ikhara out of balance. But he has no idea who might be behind it.”

“The King thinks the gods are punishing the kingdom.”

The look she gives me is pointed. “For what?”

“I have no idea.”

Wren turns back to the stage, the furrow in her brow deepening. “Me neither. But the reason doesn’t really matter. The problem is that the King believes it. And I’m worried what it’ll lead him to do.”

To my other side, Aoki is still chatting with Zhin. “The King won’t notice me in this at all,” she mutters, picking at the draped sleeves of her beige ruqun, the fabric patterned with gold embroidery.

As Zhin starts to reply, Blue’s voice sounds over her. “Of course he won’t,” she says crisply, glancing over her shoulder from the row in front of us with a toss of her hair. “That color makes you look ill. You should tell your maid to avoid it in the future.”

“I think she looks beautiful,” I say with a glare.

Blue’s eyes flick to me, her chin tilted. “Looks like Master Tekoa was right about all that fire, Nine. You’re practically a human lantern.” The corners of her mouth tug up. “Such a shame how some girls have to be so obvious to attract the King’s attention. At least little Aoki doesn’t need to try so hard. You know, the King tells me her company is surprisingly pleasant.”

To my surprise, Aoki beams at this. When Blue turns back round, she grabs my knee, leaning in. “Did you hear that? The King enjoys his time with me!”

I grimace. “And that’s a good thing?”

Something darts across her face—hurt.

“I told you at the party, Lei,” she says, shifting back. “He’s kind to me.”

“Only because he’s getting what he wants!”

After my night with Wren—the softness, the fierceness, the tenderness of the hunger I felt in her lips, so different from how I felt under the King’s touch—I can’t imagine how Aoki could actually enjoy her time with him. And for the King to call her company pleasant. Pleasant. A word dull with mediocrity. Nothing like the dazzle and burn I felt at Wren’s kiss. The way I hope for every girl to be thought of by her lover.

I open my mouth to say more, but just then the lanterns in the hall blow out. A hush falls over the crowd.

“I thought you’d be happy for me,” Aoki whispers. Her face is shadowed in the now-dark hall, but I don’t need light to know her expression. Even in the darkness, her eyes glimmer with tears.

My face twists. “Aoki—” I start, but she turns to face the stage, inching away.

Wren presses her shoulder gently to mine. “We of all people can’t judge Aoki for what she feels,” she says under her breath, chin tilted down. “Or for whom.”

I go to retort, but the heavy beat of drums echoes through the room, silencing me. A lithe gazelle-form woman dances onto the stage. Unlike the typical shadow play performances I’ve seen, where the actors hold up puppets, this actress is the puppet. Her body is wrapped in a wooden cage mimicking her own form but making it twice as tall. A jewel-eyed gazelle mask perches at the top of the elongated wooden neck arching from the dancer’s back. As she moves behind the rippling sheets of silk, her exaggerated horned shadow arcs and turns with every movement.

Murmurs rise among the crowd.

I shoot Wren a sideways look. “Where’s the King? He should have been announced—”

A shout cuts me off.

At first I think it’s part of the play, that the noise is coming from the stage. But then there’s another shout, and another. In a handful of seconds, the whole theater erupts with cries, and I realize—this isn’t a performance.

Something’s wrong.

Panic floods the hall, a physical thing, buzzing and spilling over the edges with the rage of a monsoon tide. All around us, the crowd is scrambling to their feet, demons and humans, court members and their companions, stumbling over cushions and even one another in their rush to escape.

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.”

Though Aoki is small, she isn’t so light that Wren should be able to lift her this way. I follow her in silence, scared to get too close to this girl with the bloodstained hands.

The tunnel isn’t long. At its end, we open the trap door overhead. Rain greets our upturned faces. Wren helps me out first—I cringe at the smell of blood on her—and then together we lift out Aoki. With another easy movement, Wren picks Aoki back up and we hurry around the side of the building, keeping a safe distance from the flames.

A crowd has gathered. As we join them, my eyes alert for the other girls, a number of carriages pull up to the front of the theater. I recognize the black handprint symbol on the sides of their carriages as the same as those on the robes of the shamans who purified me before seeing the King—and the one who fixed my bruises after.

The royal shamans.

Wren sets Aoki down. I kneel beside her to check she’s breathing, shielding her face from the rain with my arm before turning my attention back to the carriages. Black-robed figures are filing out of them, orderly and calm. Even though their skin is hidden, I can picture the dark web of tattoos on their bodies, their skin a forest of ink, like some kind of dark map of sacrifice and pain. The shamans form a ring around the theater. In perfect synchrony, they raise their hands and begin to draw glowing characters in the air in front of them, chanting as they write.

The warm prickle of magic radiates from them, a growing thrum. When the air is so full of pressure it’s like being in the midst of a thunderstorm, the shamans whip their hands upward. A gust of wind bursts from their circle. It blasts in both directions, billowing into us—making our eyes water and clothes fly out—and rushing toward the theater, swelling and rising to tower over the domed building, solidifying into a roiling pewter cloud.

It hangs there, dark and growling. Then it drops from the air, transforming as it falls into a plunging torrent of water.

Water gushes over the theater, swallowing the flames. Hitting the ground, we’re soaked through in an instant as the wave barrels into us.

Aoki comes round with a gasp. I help her up, shoving the wet hair from her face. I’m gasping myself, numb from the chill night air on my wet skin, and we clutch each other, both shaking.

“What—what happened?” she cries, looking left and right. “Did you see them, Lei? I think someone followed us into the tunnel—” She cuts off, coughing.

I rub her back. “It was just something falling. A piece of wood. Don’t worry.”

“But—”

“You fainted, Aoki. Take it easy. I’m going to get you something warm to wear. Can you wait here?”

Still trembling, she nods. As I get to my feet, Wren puts a hand on my shoulder. “Lei—”

“Look after her. I won’t be long.” I take a sharp inhale, continuing in a low voice, “You knew the trap door was there, Wren. You knew how to fight. How to kill.”

The crowd is moving around us, and someone bumps into me, knocking me into Wren. She lifts her arms to steady me, but I jerk back, the image of her in the tunnel reentering my mind.

“I thought I knew you,” I say weakly.

She flinches. “You do know me.”

“I’m going to get some robes or a blanket for Aoki,” I go on, avoiding her eyes. “We can talk when you’re ready to tell me the truth about what the gods just happened.”

Wren catches me as I turn. “I haven’t lied to you, Lei,” she promises.

“Well, you haven’t exactly told me the truth, either.”

Her mouth parts, something pained pinching her face, and I force myself to walk away.