Panicked, Philippe crashed into Auguste, knocking him from the platform. A flame caught the king’s sleeve. It engulfed him instantaneously, and he fell to the ground—writhing, shrieking—as Philippe swiftly stripped the king of his lion’s cloak, attempted to strip him of his burning shirt. But the fabric had already melted into his skin. Philippe recoiled instantly, recognizing the battle lost. “Oliana!” Auguste flung a hand toward his wife, who stood beside the platform. Without a word, she turned and entered the church. Blanching at the havoc on the street, Father Gaspard followed quickly behind.

Philippe crushed Auguste’s hand underfoot as he too fled.

“Get . . . out of here.” Barely audible, Lou jerked her head toward Beau. He still grappled with the rope, grimacing against the flames. They curled up his boots. His leather boots. “Leave.”

“No,” he snarled.

The heat was all-consuming now. The pain. Below us, Auguste’s shrieks stopped abruptly. His limbs stilled. Skin and flesh melting into bone. With empty eyes, he stared at his burning city forevermore.

The flames danced on his corpse.

“I can’t—I can’t extinguish them.” Adrenaline roared through my ears, deadening Lou’s voice. Though her face contorted with concentration, I could scarcely see through the smoke, could scarcely breathe. The fire raged on. It crept from the alleys, the hidden doors, the cracks and the crannies as Chasseurs left their posts. It snaked up drainpipes. It slithered through windows. Devouring the city inch by inch. Homes. Shops. People.

A keen cry sounded from the street.

Coco.

She fought to reach us, knives flashing, plunging into anyone foolish enough to block her path. The crowd compounded to a mob around her. Bodies collided. Women pulled their children from the street, shrieking and pounding on the nearest doors, while foolish men attempted to enter the fray.

“The magic—it’s too—” Lou shuddered on a cough, still immersed in her patterns, as Coco finally broke through the crowd. “It isn’t mine.”

Coco circled the platform frantically, seeking a gap in the flames. Her cries were lost amidst the tumult.

“I’ve almost”—Beau’s fingers scrabbled at the ropes—“got them.”

Lou’s voice rose to a scream now. It tore from her throat, raw and vicious. Terrified. “It’s too late—”

“Just leave, brother!” My own voice joined hers. “GO!”

The fire climbed up our legs now. Up his. It consumed all in its path: rope, clothing, skin. Without the stake to support him, Beau fell against us. “I’m not leaving you.” But his knees gave out with the words, and he crumpled. His face contorted as he bellowed in pain, as blisters ruptured his throat, his face.

“Yes, you are,” Lou said through gritted teeth. She looked to Coco with tears in her eyes. “Take care of each other.”