I will find you all. I will use everything in my power to save your souls. I was born to destroy you.

In the good years, they wine and dine, laugh and love.
In the bad years, they draw their swords and
slit each other’s throat.

—Excerpt from Relations between Kenettra and Beldain, The Travels of Elaida Eleanore

Adelina Amouteru

My life at the Fortunata Court quickly falls into place.

For two solid weeks, Raffaele teaches me the subtle graces of moving around the court. The art of walking. Of smiling. Of avoiding unwanted client advances as an underage consort-in-training. Simple in theory—but Raffaele’s effortless elegance is made up of a thousand tiny gestures that are shockingly difficult to imitate.

“You are comparing two weeks of training with many years,” Raffaele tells me, laughing, when I complain about how clumsy my walk looks next to his own. “Do not worry so much. You know enough for a novice, and that will get you by.”

And so it does. I become used to wrapping my hair in silks every morning, putting on my glittering mask, and wandering the halls of the court. Few pay attention to me, as long as I follow Raffaele’s advice. You are underage. You have no name, as far as the court is concerned, and you are not permitted to speak to anyone who wants to be your client. This should give you protection if you ever feel you need to shake off unwanted advances.

The freedom is nice. I spend my mornings down in the cavern, observing the other Elites whenever they gather. Gradually, I learn more about each of them. After Enzo and Raffaele, for instance, the Star Thief was their next recruit. Enzo named her after the scribe Tristan Chirsley’s Stories of the Star Thief, a folk hero who could steal anything, because she could steal the minds of beasts. Her marking is a purple shape that stretches across part of her face.

After her came the Spider, who used to be a blacksmith apprentice. The dark, irregular markings on his neck extend down to his chest. The Windwalker was exiled here from the snowy Skyland nation of Beldain. I don’t know the story behind that. One of her arms is covered in dark, swirling lines. The last one, the Architect, is a boy currently apprenticed at the University of Estenzia to a master painter. Capable of touching anything—a rock, a sword, a human—and unwinding it, then re-forming it in a different spot. Enzo gave him his Elite name after he designed the gem-locked door to the cavern. His fingernails have stripes of discoloration on them, lines of deep black and blue.

Altogether, there are six of them. I hope I survive to be the seventh.

I take lunches in my chambers alone, and wander the halls and courtyards when I feel restless. The others don’t talk much to me yet. I rarely see Enzo. Even a banished prince must still have princely duties, I suppose, but whenever I don’t see his face down in the cavern, I leave disappointed. Some days, I feel like the only one in the court’s secret corridors.

I come to look forward to the performances that happen almost every night, elaborate dances put on by the consorts that draw potential clients from every corner of the city. Almost all of the other consorts are marked. They wear decorative masks like me—many with their hair also woven into elaborate headpieces. Works of art.

My only goal now is to master my power, to be included in the Daggers’ missions, their secretive comings and goings. I start to forget that the Inquisition is hunting for me. I start to forget that I ever had a sister.

I only think of these things late at night, when everything is quiet. Perhaps she’s moved on without me, anyway.

Teren Santoro

Master Santoro.”

“Yes, what is it?”

“This is a street urchin who begs near the edge of the Red Quarter. He says he saw something at the Fortunata Court that might interest you.”

“Oh? Is that so? Speak up, boy—you’ll have a hot supper and place to sleep if I like your answer.”

“Y-yes, sir. Um. It was yesterday. I heard from other urchins that the Inquisition’s—s-searching for a girl with a scar across her left eye.”

“We are. And?”

“Well—I can’t be sure—but I saw—”

“You’re either sure or you’re not. What did you see?”

“I’m sorry, Master Santoro. I—I’m sure. Sure I saw such a girl, walking along the upper courtyards of the Fortunata Court. That fancy one—up on the hill—”

“Yes, I know the one. Get on with it.”

“Y-yes, sorry, sir. The girl’s hair was wrapped up in cloth, though, so I don’t know what color it was.”

“Wrapped, in a Tamouran fashion?”

“I don’t know. I suppose so.”

Teren sits back in his chair. He studies the filthy, shivering boy kneeling before him for a long moment. Finally, he smiles. “Thank you.” He waves a hand at the Inquisitors who’d brought the boy in. “A gold talent, a hot meal, and a room at an inn.” He nods once as the boy’s face lights up. “Never let it be said that I’m not generous.”

Once upon a winter

I met a man in the woods

The man beckoned me over

To see a satchel of goods

He offered three wishes

I asked for beauty, love, riches

And he froze me in stone where I stood.

—“The Greedy Ghost of Cypress Pass,” common folk song

Adelina Amouteru

Another night at the Fortunata Court. Another night of glistening robes and sensual dances.

Raffaele helps me prepare until I am breathtaking in silks and jewels, and then leads me out of the secret halls and toward the main lounging chamber. The chamber is lavishly decorated tonight, dotted with velvet divans, plates of jasmine sitting on low, round tables, arching curtains of silks hanging across tall windows. Vases of night lilies stand in each corner of the room, their dark purple petals open, their rich, musky scent filling the air. Consorts dressed in their finest gather in clusters. Some already have clients with them, while others giggle among themselves.