“Shame on you. Shame on all of you,” Datu Luma roared over the chaos. Laya caught sight of his white hair in the throng. He, along with several of the other noblemen, snatched the swords from the hands of the cursed guards. They pushed their way in front of the panicked guests to meet the Kulaw forces. The steel in their borrowed weapons gleamed orange beneath the great hall’s muted light. Their ragged breaths broke the tense silence that swept across the room. None of the cursed guardsmen ran to the nobles’ aid. The Kulaw men outnumbered them, and they were closing in fast.

A towering figure emerged before the scarlet-sashed warriors. Laya recognized his broad shoulders and boxy face from the tournament ring. It was Vikal. “I beg you, Datu Luma, not to act in haste,” he said, his deep voice reverberating across the room. He slid his sword back into its sheath and held out his hand, as if calming a skittish buffalo. “You need only listen. If everyone cooperates, there will be no bloodshed today.”

Laya’s blood ran cold. She understood with a sickening pang what Imeria had brought these men there to do. The rage surged through her veins, sharpening her focus. Whatever power Imeria and her warriors wielded, Laya refused to hand the throne over to her.

“Get back,” she hissed at Bulan.

Bulan blinked, her cheeks gray in shock. “I don’t understand,” she whispered.

Laya didn’t wait for her sister to regain her bearings. She grabbed Bulan’s wrist and shoved her behind herself. Without warning, she thrust her palms to the sky. The air in the great hall grew frigid, freezing in Laya’s hold. The threads of energy wound between her fingers. With a desperate cry, she drew her hand downward in a clean slice. The blast ripped from her grip, whistling over the terrified crowd and crashing through the windowpanes.

Screams echoed under the great hall’s soaring ceiling as glass shards rained on their heads. Laya’s blast had knocked down most of the Kulaw warriors, as well as the midnight-feast guests. They tumbled to the glass-strewn tiles, groaning.

Laya’s gaze shifted to the exit. Her blast had cleared a path straight through the Kulaw warriors. If they hurried, they could flee the palace. To stay was suicide; they couldn’t fend off Imeria alone. Out there, they’d find Ojas, or maybe rally their allies in the city.

She reached back and shook Bulan. “Grab Mother and Father. We need to run.”

“No, Laya. You’re not going anywhere,” a cold voice cried. Imeria planted herself in their path. She stared at Laya, her jaw clenched in determination. Laya’s previous blast had knocked her raptor headpiece askew. A thin line of blood streamed down her cheek from where a glass shard had nicked her.