Gemma stands uncomfortably alone in the square, suddenly unhappy with all the attention. I have to get out of here. Now.

“However, I bring news from the palace. His Majesty has decreed that malfettos are no longer eligible for the Tournament of Storms.”

Immediately, the Red and Blue Districts cheer—while the Green erupts into angry shouts. Out in the square, Gemma remains on the track, uneasy and tense.

I swallow hard. A wave of guilt hits me. This is my doing.

The trumpeter exchanges a few more bewildered words with the Inquisitors. Then, he goes around to each of the other riders, collects their green sashes back, and hands them a red one instead, silently acknowledging the second place finisher’s win. The Green Quarter roars their fury. Already, scuffles are breaking out in the crowd.

My gaze stays on Gemma’s lone figure out in the square, bewildered and helpless, and for a moment I’m reminded of Violetta. The Inquisitors hold her there, as if they think she’d throw a fit. The trumpeter hands her a red sash. My hands grip the edges of my silks so tightly that I swear my nails are cutting open the skin of my palms. Threads of energy glitter in the air, signs of the crowd’s—of my own—rising fear. My fingertips tingle, humming with the growing power. Through the masses, my father’s ghost appears and disappears. He glides through the people, his haunting smile fixated on me.

Gemma’s cheeks burn with shame. The crowd falls into complete silence. One of the Inquisitors holding her now wraps the red sash around her upper right arm. She bites her lip, keeping her eyes turned downward. The Inquisitor winds it three times, then yanks it viciously tight. Gemma gasps out loud and winces.

“Sir Barra of the Red Quarter!” the trumpeter calls out, as the new winner holds his arms up. Gemma’s eyes stay down. Get out of there, I suddenly think at her, wishing she could hear me. A million threads hang over the square.

Suddenly, someone in the crowd hurls a rock at the Inquisitor’s head.

The Inquisitor blocks it with his sword before it can reach him, and it clatters off the metal and falls harmlessly to the ground. His eyes search the crowd for his attacker, but all he sees is a sea of stricken faces, suddenly silent and pale. I tense along with the crowd. In Dalia, attacking an Inquisitor is punishable by death.

The Inquisitor nods at his companions. Gemma lets out a cry of protest as they force her to her knees. The crowd gasps. Even the troublemakers, the ones who had insulted Gemma so freely earlier, now look uncertain. To my shame, excitement instead of horror wells up in my chest, and my fingertips tingle. My darkness is a building storm, black as the sky, the threads wound tight with tension and filling every crevice of my mind. The Daggers must be preparing to make a move. They must be ready to save her. Right? Raffaele said that Gemma’s powers scatter when she’s frightened.

“Perhaps we need a harsher reminder for this audience,” the Inquisitor snaps, “on the etiquette of good sport.” He presses his sword against her neck hard enough to draw blood.

Where are you, Enzo?

I can’t hold back any longer. I have to do something. Before I can stop myself, I reach out with my mind and pull on the strings of energy inside me. The ease hits me with a thrill. There is so much tension to feed on here—so much unease and ugliness, such dark feelings. Raffaele’s words flash through my thoughts. I focus, gathering all my concentration on the specific threads I’m pulling, knowing what I want to make. The threads push back, protesting the change, but I force them to bend to my will.

Up on the roofs, shadowy silhouettes rise.

Sweat beads on my forehead, but I force myself to keep my focus. I struggle to hold on to the threads, but there are so many of them. Clenching my teeth, I force the shape of the silhouettes to change. And for the first time—they listen to me. The silhouettes take on the shapes of Daggers, their dark hoods and silver masks intact, crouching by the dozens on the rooftops like silent sentinels, black against the stormy sky. I hold them all in position there. My breaths turn ragged. I feel like I’ve been running for hours. Some of the silhouettes quiver, barely able to retain their shape. Hold on. They stabilize. I catch my breath at how real they look.

The Inquisitors glance up at the roofs. The sword falls away from Gemma.

“The Elites!” several in the crowd shriek, pointing up at my illusion. “They’re here!”

The crowd bursts into screams. The horses startle. Gemma hops to her feet, her eyes wide, and seizes the moment to scamper back into the crowd. The rush of darkness through me is intoxicating and irresistible, and I find myself embracing it, letting it cover my insides like ink. Such power over these little masses. I love it.

I’m not strong enough to hold the illusion in place. The silhouettes scatter into nothingness as soon as I pull them back below the roofline. I shove my way frantically out of the square with the others. My sudden burst of bravado is replaced with anger at myself. Now Enzo will know for certain that I was here—they might find out why I was really in the streets. They might find out about my meeting with Teren, and what I told him. Nausea churns in me. I have to leave here.

All around me, people try to flood out of the square. Some Inquisitors are blocking the exits, but there are too many of us and not enough of them. I’m careful to stay close to the walls of the buildings as people shove past me. All around me is a blur of chaos and colors, masked faces and the sensation of others’ fear. Threads of energy glitter in the air.

Then, out of nowhere—an arrow comes flying from the sky and hits an Inquisitor in the chest. It hits him so hard that it knocks him off his horse.