Philosopher brushed the gravel off his uniform. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Magic takes practice, and all of us have fallen face-first in this arena many, many times. Just remember that we’re training to make Kichona great, that Emperor Gin expects us to do the best we can. That means we have to make mistakes, but it’ll be worth it.”

Broomstick wrinkled his forehead as he listened to the conversation. He’d expected the hypnotized taigas to be mindless pawns. But Philosopher seemed to be the same sweet girl he knew, an actual person rather than a witless weapon. The main difference was her devotion to the Dragon Prince and his pursuit of the Evermore. It was a confusing mix of traits that Broomstick tried to wrap his head around.

In a twisted way, though, it gave him hope. The real taigas were still in those minds and bodies. They’d had part of their brains hijacked, but there was something worth saving.

There was nothing more to see here, though. Before watching his friends, Broomstick had searched the sparring arena’s storage spaces and back rooms, and there was no sign of Empress Aki. However, this new understanding of how the taigas operated could come in handy. Maybe he’d be able to get some information out of them just like he had in the past, by chatting up his coworkers in Warrior Meeting Hall. He’d have to pretend he was a ryuu, though.

I hope they were too caught up in the battle to notice that I escaped the Dragon Prince’s claws and I’m part of Spirit’s rebellion. Broomstick crossed his fingers and hurried to Warrior Meeting Hall.

The nearest room was a large conference space. He glanced inside, but it was just a bunch of ryuu—not new recruits but Prince Gin’s original warriors from the Blood Rift—sharing several bottles of something and singing drunkenly. It was as if this once sacrosanct building where the Society governed was nothing more than a tavern, the long conference table converted into a sloshy bar.

Broomstick couldn’t bear to listen. He headed farther down the corridor.

Most of the meeting rooms were empty, but the lights in the administrative office were on. Broomstick took a deep breath, put on his most gregarious expression, and strode in as if he belonged there.

“Hey-o,” he said to the half dozen taigas—no, ryuu recruits—who were busy going through stacks of files. “What’d I miss?”

Crossbow, a taiga in his thirties, looked up through his glasses. “Broomstick, where’ve you been? Your shift was supposed to start two hours ago. We’ve been buried in paper here.”