A knowing glance passed between Sledge, Pine, and Triple, and the three of them slowly rose to their feet.

“What?” Caledonia hissed.

“Time for theater.” Triple’s answer was grim but oblique, and there wasn’t room for anything more.

The hall was nearly empty now. If they didn’t follow, they’d certainly be noticed. Even the cook was closing up his trays of food and preparing to leave. Whatever theater entailed, it wasn’t optional.

Outside, they were swept along darkened streets until they came to an open square. On all sides, buildings stood with doors flung open to the night. Strains of music floated above the constant chorus of the crowd, and the air smelled faintly of alcohol. The cacophony upended the usual lock-step rhythm that governed the rest of town.

Behind them, more Bullets pushed into the square, forcing the Blades to keep moving. Pine’s hand gripped her wrist as they were pushed closer and closer to the front of the square and a raised wooden stage upon which two posts stood tall. There was no fighting the crowd. As more Bullets poured into the square from behind, Caledonia found herself perilously close to the stage.

To one side, two dozen children, each younger than Nettle, stood shoulder to shoulder with a clear view of the stage, still and alert. Whatever was about to happen, these recruits had seen it before. The only comforting thought Caledonia could muster was that this had nothing to do with her or the body she and Pine had left behind. This was Bullet business, and she just had to get through it.

A rhythmic pounding began somewhere ahead of them. It echoed off the buildings, growing louder and louder until it filled the square with an ominous pulse. In another moment, Caledonia located the source: a train of Bullets processed toward the dais, pounding staves into the ground as they entered the square. Before them, a boy, bound and stripped to the waist, walked calmly toward the stage.

The procession stopped, allowing a single figure to climb up the steps. A woman with ropes of silvered hair wrapped tightly around her head turned to face them. She wore robes of orange and the palest cream cinched around her waist by a belt of woven baleflowers. She was as old as the cook in the mess hall, and she was striking.

“Good tides, my siblings.” Her voice rose above them like a feather on the breeze, captivating and deceptively fragile.

“Good tides, Sister,” came the heavy response.

Deceptively fragile indeed.

“We’ve come here this eve to celebrate one of our brightest brothers. He has chosen to leave us, and we must cut him from our hearts. Little by little.” Her words were sculpted and dangerous, and they clearly communicated more to everyone around Caledonia than they did to her. “Bring him up.”