“So. You’re a Young Elite.” There. I’ve said it aloud.

“A name the people invented to refer to our youth and our unnatural abilities. The Inquisition hates it.” Enzo smiles, a lazy expression of mischief. “I am the leader of the Dagger Society, a group of Young Elites who seek out others like ourselves before the Inquisition can. But we are not the only Elites—there are many others, I’m sure, scattered all across the world. My goal is to unite us. Burnings like yours happen every time the Inquisition thinks they’ve found a Young Elite. Some people abandon their own marked family members because they’re afraid of ‘bad luck.’ The king uses malfettos as an excuse for his poor rule. As if we are to blame for the state of his impoverished nation. If we don’t fight back, the king and his Inquisition Axis will kill us all, every child marked by the fever.” His eyes harden. “But we do fight back. Don’t we, Adelina?”

His words remind me of the strange whispers that have accompanied my illusions—something dark and vengeful, tempting and powerful. A weight presses on my chest. I am afraid. Intrigued.

“What will you do?” I whisper.

Enzo leans back and looks out the window. “We will seize the throne, of course.” He sounds almost indifferent, like he’s talking about his breakfast.

He wants to kill the king? What about the Inquisition? “That’s impossible,” I breathe.

He gives me a sideways look, something simultaneously curious and threatening. “Is it?”

My skin tingles. I peer closer at him. Then, suddenly, I cover my mouth with one hand. I know where I’ve seen him before.

“You—” I stammer. “You’re the prince.”

No wonder he looks familiar. I’d seen many portraits of Kenettra’s firstborn prince as a child. He was the crown prince back then, our future king. The word was that he had nearly died from the blood fever. He came out of it marked instead. Unfit to be heir to the throne. That was the last we all heard about him, really. After his father the king died, Enzo’s older sister stripped Enzo of his crown and banished him permanently from the palace, never again to set foot near the royal family. Her husband, a powerful duke, became king.

I lower my gaze. “Your Royal Highness,” I say, bowing my head.

Enzo replies with a single, subtle nod. “Now you know the real reason why the king and queen denounce malfettos. It makes malfettos look like abominations, and it keeps me unfit for the throne.”

My hands start to tremble. Now I understand. He is assembling a team, a team to help him reclaim his birthright.

Enzo leans close enough for me to see slashes of a brilliant red in his eyes. “I make you this offer, Adelina Amouteru. You can spend the rest of your life on the run, friendless and alone, always fearful of the Inquisition Axis finding you and bringing you to justice for a crime you did not commit. Or we can see if you belong with us. The gifts the fever left with you are not as unreliable as they might seem. There is a rhythm and science to controlling your power. There’s reason behind the chaos. If you wish, you can learn control. And you will be well paid for it.”

When I stay silent, Enzo lifts one gloved hand and touches my chin. “How many times have you been called an abomination?” he whispers. “A monster? Worthless?”

Too many times.

“Then let me tell you a secret.” He shifts so that his lips are close to my ear. A shiver dances down my spine. “You are not an abomination. You are not merely a malfetto. That is why they fear you. The gods gave us powers, Adelina, because we are born to rule.”

A million thoughts run through my mind—memories of my childhood, visions of my father and my sister, of the Inquisition’s dungeons, the iron stake, Teren’s pale eyes, the crowd chanting against me. I remember how I always crouched at the top of my stairs, pretending to rule from on high. I can rise above all of this, if I become one of them. They can keep me safe.

Suddenly, in the presence of this Young Elite, the power of the Inquisition Axis seems very far away.

I can tell that Enzo is watching how my hair and lashes shift colors ever so slightly with the light. His gaze lingers where my hair hides the scarred side of my face. I blush. He reaches out a hand. It falters there, as if waiting for me to shy away, but I stay very still until he finally touches my hair and tucks it carefully away from my face, exposing my imperfections. Heat rushes instantly from his fingertips through my body, a thrilling sensation that sends my heart pounding.

He says nothing for a while. Then, he pulls the glove off one of his hands. I gasp. Underneath the leather, his hand is a mass of burned flesh, most of it healed over in thick layers of hideous scar tissue that must have accumulated over the years, while a few spots still remain red and angry. He replaces the glove, transforming the awful sight into one of black leather and flecks of blood. Of power.

“Embellish your flaws,” he says softly. “They will turn into your assets. And if you become one of us, I will teach you to wield them like an assassin wields a knife.” His eyes narrow. His subtle smile turns dangerous. “So. Tell me, little wolf. Do you want to punish those who have wronged you?”

Teren Santoro

Late afternoon in Estenzia.

Teren waits behind a pillar lining the palace’s main courtyard, his heart in his throat, the white of his Lead Inquisitor cloak blending in with the marble. Shadows and sunlight play on his face. Farther up the courtyard’s path and partially hidden from view by rose vines, the queen of Kenettra walks alone, her dark hair piled high on her head in a tumble of curls, her skin a warm hue under the sun. Her Majesty, Queen Giulietta I of Kenettra.