Page 13 of Between Smoke and Shadow

I only hated that I would neverbeher.

Of course, I can’t admit that. Not to Caleah or the other rebels or anyone at all. I wouldn’t admit it to myself, if I could help it.

When a tall figure enters the arena, a collective breath draws through the viewing room. It’s one of the princes, broad-shouldered and dressed in a vermillion training suit. His face is bare, which is the most startling thing of all. Only members of the crown don’t wear masks, and this close, it’s unsettling. Viana grabs Saskia’s hand, hard enough that her fingers lose color.

“He’s beautiful,” she whispers. Her voice’s usual severity is gone, replaced with only the purest childlike wonder. “My husband is beautiful.”

Prince Harrick, heir to the throne, immediate descendant of the Architect. And yes, he’s stunning.

Despite myself, despite the fact Caleah is here, I move forward, desperate for a better look. I’ve heard snippets of gossip, seen portraits of the crowned on elite-level walls. This is different. I can see Prince Harrick, so near and unmasked and hauntingly beautiful. His eyes, closer to black than violet, contain more magic than any other descendant in history. That includes his twin brother Malek.

Prince Harrick steps farther into the arena and pauses. Without looking at the guards or the array of weapons on the wall, he nods at us through the window. Of course, he’s not nodding atallof us. He doesn’t notice the malnourished, dirty servants in the back. He only sees his choice of brides, the beautiful ladies all desperate to be his.

I fight the unexpected smile on my lips.

Because someday, things will be different. Everyone in this room will see me. They will learn my name, memorize my face. They will come to fear this little shadow, because someday, it will takeeverythingfrom them.

FIVE

RUNE

I can’t decide if Viana’s putting on a show. She’s smiling and giggling, waving shyly at Harrick through the glass. She doesn’t scowl when he ignores her. She doesn’t scowl at all now that he’s here. It’s probably an act, but she sure looks genuine. Her eyes track his every movement, smile widening as she watches him.

She doesn’t react when Prince Malek enters the arena, but the other elites do. While he and Harrick were born identical, they’re easy to distinguish now. Gruesome scars line Malek’s face, all different shapes and lengths: one across his cheek, another through his left eyebrow, two more along his jaw and throat. His hair is long, unkempt, and his eyes are just barely lighter than his brother’s.

He moves differently too. Where Harrick takes slow, calculated steps, Malek strides wildly. He knocks shoulders with every guard he passes, flashing a snarled grin at his audience. He does a full rotation of the room before settling in beside Harrick.

The brothers do not acknowledge each other.

Princess Tora arrives last, and the first thing I notice are her eyes. While her brothers’ irises are dark, like strong nightwater, Tora’s are the color of wilting lilacs. She’s weak. Far weaker thana crowned descendant should be—and without masks, it’s easy to see the stark, startling contrast between them.

My heart spikes in my throat.

I know about their magic, of course. Everyone, even lowly servants, know the basics. Descendants get their magic from one of four sectors: the Reaping Grounds, the Wilds, the City of Mirrors, the Pit. Most royals have an ability, ranging from reviving wilted plants to causing deadly rockslides. Their strength depends on several factors, but it’s always visible in their eyes. The darker the violet, the more the power.

And the crowned are supposed to be strongest of all.

After Princess Tora’s disappointing birth, the Architect started a new line. Twin boys, both shockingly beautiful and immensely powerful. Like the Architect, they can channel not one sector, but all four.

Looking between the brothers now, I can feel it.

Their untouchable power.

For the first time since we’ve entered the room, I glance at Caleah. It’s not intentional, but I’m desperate to know what she’s thinking. I’ve never witnessed crowned magic in person, aside from the Architect’s executions. Has Caleah? Have most people here? She doesn’t return my gaze, so I force it back to the arena.

A buzzer sounds, and that’s the only warning we get before the guards lunge. The non-descendant guards grab at the weapon-lined walls. One tears a collection of metal squares and fastens them to his chest plate. Another claims a magicked hook, treacherously sharp and glowing red. She flips it in the air, letting it rotate, before smoothly catching it in her gloved hand. Then, she snaps to face the crowned siblings, legs braced in a wide stance.

As the guards seamlessly move, the siblings maintain their positions in the back. They don’t race to choose weapons. Theydon’t take defensive stances. They remain still, watching the guards like I imagine lions watch their prey.

The guards shift to the left side of the room, in what appears to be a practiced arrangement. Malek ticks his head, a small and devious grin twisting his scars. Harrick glances at Tora, and though she doesn’t return his gaze, she offers a subtle nod.

A second buzzer blares, longer than the first. This time, there’s a heavy pause. The guards raise their weapons or their glowing hands, shoulders clenching with tension. With each passing second, they cower closer together.

One breath. Two.

Malek moves first, his jaw unhinging with a brutal scream. Despite the glass wall, it sounds like he’s yelling in this very room. His hands light with magic, flaring like hot coals. They burn infinitely brighter than any of the guards’, and the red pulses as it grows in size and changes shape. The viewing elites suck in breaths and give squeamish cries, but I find my awareness narrowing. Suddenly, I feel like I’m alone in this room, watching something equal parts horrifying and beautiful.

Magic pulses at Malek’s fingertips, brighter and stronger, until the smoke takes a life of its own. It coils from his outstretched hands, morphing from heavy fog into a beast unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Rising over ten feet tall, its misshapen body nearly touches the ceiling. It stands on multiple sharp, spindly legs that bend at unnatural angles. Every time it moves, one of its pointed feet pierces clean through the mat.

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