Then, everything goes black.

Thus we agree, should the day ever come, my troops,

the Aristans, shall take possession of eastern Amadera to the

river’s mouth, and your troops, the Salans, shall take possession

of western Amadera to the same. No blood will be shed.

—Treaty between the Aristans and Salans before Amadera’s Second Civil War, 770–776

Adelina Amouteru

I wake at the sound of clinking chains. It takes me another moment to realize that the chains are on my wrists. The world sharpens and blurs over and over again, so I can only tell that my surroundings are dark gray and silver, that the stone beneath me is cold and damp. For an instant, I am back in the Inquisition Tower’s dungeons; my father has just died, and I am destined to burn at the stake. I can even hear his chuckle in the corner of the room, see a hazy mirage of him leaning against the wall there, the gash in his chest torn open and bleeding, his mouth twisted in a smile.

I try to shrink away from him, but my chains keep me from moving too far. A few mutters echo from a distance above me.

“She’s waking up.”

“Take her before the Triad. Be careful—those chains. Where’s the Messenger? We need his help . . .”

They are speaking Tamouran; I can’t understand the rest of what they’re saying. The voices fade away, and a moment later, I feel the sensation of being lifted. The world lurches. I try to focus on something, anything, but my mind is too hazy. The whispers fill my head with nonsense, then scatter.

There is a hallway and stairs and the cool breeze of night. Nearby, a voice that I know all too well. Magiano. I turn, yearning for him, but I can’t seem to pinpoint where he is. He sounds angry. His voice floats near and then far, until I don’t hear him at all. They’re going to hurt him. The thought sends every ounce of my energy roaring to the surface, and I snarl, lashing out blindly. I will kill them if they do. But my attack feels weak and uncoordinated. Shouts ring out around me, and the bonds on my arms tighten painfully. My strength dissolves again.

Where is everyone else? The thought comes to me and I try to hang on to it. Where is Sergio? My fleet? Where am I? Am I lost in another of my nightmares?

My memory of the battle comes crawling back, piece by piece. Enzo’s power had overwhelmed mine. I was attacked by one of my own Inquisitors. This much I remember. The thought feels fuzzy, but it lingers long enough for me to process. The Saccorists, the rebellion against me.

A rat, the whispers say. They always sneak through the cracks.

The night changes to stairs again. We are outside, and soldiers—enemy soldiers—are leading me up steps. I lift my head weakly. The stairs stretch endlessly to either side of us and seem to lead to the heavens. Towers loom above, candles burning gold at windowsills, and in front of us, a series of enormous archways soar across the stairs. I look higher to where the stairs give way to a grand, elaborately carved entrance, framed by pillars and covered with thousands of repeating circles and squares. There are words carved into six of the tallest pillars.

LOYALTY. LOVE. KNOWLEDGE. DILIGENCE. SACRIFICE. PIETY.

The words are Tamouran, but I recognize them. They are the famed six pillars of Tamoura.

Then I stumble on the steps, and someone hoists me higher. My head slumps.

The next time I wake, I am lying in the center of a vast, circular chamber. A low rumble of voices echoes all around me. Rows of candles line the edges of the room, and light comes from somewhere above me, enough to illuminate the entire space. A terrible pressure pushes against my chest—the familiar tether between Enzo and me feels tight, the energy in it pulsing and trembling. He must be in the room. My hands are still shackled and my head throbs, but this time the world sharpens enough for me to think straight. I push myself up to a sitting position.

I am in the middle of a circle drawn into the floor, the edges embellished by smaller circles. Three thrones sit along the perimeter, an equal distance from each other, all of them pointed in my direction. In each throne sits a tall figure dressed in the finest gold silks, his hair hidden behind Tamouran wraps. The Golden Triad. I am in the Tamouran throne room, seated before their triplet kings.

I blink away the remnants of my hazy mind and glance quickly around the room. Soldiers stir and shift warily at my movement. Immediately, instinctively, I reach for my energy—the threads of fear and uncertainty in the chamber now call to me—and I lash out with a web of illusions. The chamber falls into sudden darkness, screams fill the air, and a whip of agony coils itself around the Tamouran soldiers closest to me. Several of them cry out. I bare my teeth, aiming next for the kings.

“Stay still, Adelina.” It’s Raffaele’s voice.

I turn against the ground, until my chains don’t let me move any farther, and search for him. He’s standing next to one of the thrones, his hands folded into his sleeves. He looks grave, but his expression takes nothing away from his beauty. His hair is loose and straight tonight, black with sapphire strands that catch the candlelight. Just as I remember him. He returns my look calmly. The colors of his eyes shift in the light.

Beside him stand several archers, their crossbows pointed at me.

“Release your illusions,” Raffaele says. “You are here at the mercy of King Valar, King Ema, and King Joza, the rulers of the great empire of Tamoura. Rise, withhold your powers, and address Their Majesties.”

My temper surges, even though I know Raffaele is right. My powers are still only illusions—I will not be able to lunge fast enough to keep those crossbows from hitting their target. I’ll be dead within seconds. Thoughts flash through my mind. Why did Raffaele bring me here? Why hasn’t he killed me yet? He could have let them unleash their arrows without warning me.