Una tracing the symbol of the Goddess on her forehead.

“Very well,” Una called out. “You’ve caught us.”

The Guardsmen shifted in front of them. Some of them hesitated. Although Wren could not make out their features in the viscous darkness, she knew some of them had to be familiar. How many of them had worked under Una? How many of them had fought in the war alongside them?

Una held up her hands, angled her chin skyward. Almost too quietly to hear, she said, “We will die as traitors, but we will die doing what’s right.”

“Una—”

She couldn’t do this. They were too outnumbered.

But Una stepped in front of Wren and Hal and advanced toward the Guard. Each unhurried footstep echoed through the courtyard.

“Seize her,” the brigadier general said.

Everything happened in a rush.

Two soldiers approached Una and, with a ferocious shout, she cracked the hilt of her saber into the closest soldier’s skull. The resounding crunch was like the fire of a starting pistol. They descended on her like wolves, and Wren lost sight of her in the flurry of black coats.

No. Her magic was gone, but she could not—would not—let them take Una.

Her body moved of its own accord. She sprung forward, but before she could land a blow, hands like claws ensnared her from behind. They dragged her backward, and she flailed wildly against their grip.

Then, suddenly, the hands around her went slack.

She whirled around in time to see her assailant frozen mid-stride. His face was white and horrifically twisted. Every tendon corded in his neck. Every vein bulged in his temples. He staggered backward, his mouth tearing open in a scream. It was a broken-glass sound. It crawled underneath her skin, so deep, she couldn’t ever slough it off. He collapsed in a heap of tremoring muscle, his breaths high-pitched wheezes.

Hal.

Someone shouted, “Don’t look at his eyes, damn it!”

Wren turned to see the silver glow receding from the fola around Hal’s eyes. The moment’s glance cost her. A sharp pain wrenched a startled cry from her throat.

There was a syringe embedded in her shoulder, the vial draining pale green liquid into her veins.

Wren knew it instantly. A potent general anesthetic composed of boiled herbs, from morning glory to ginseng to crow-dipper. As icy numbness bled down her arm, twilight bloomed across her vision. The last thing she saw was Hal reaching out to her—and a black hood pulled taut over his face.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Wren blinked open her eyes to the steady rhythm of tick, tick, tick. There was no gap between recognizing herself—her throbbing head, her churning stomach—and jerking violently with the realization of where she was.

The Tower.