The masses thicken as we draw closer. The structure is a perfect circle. Through a dozen different gates embedded into its curved outer wall, there are a dozen different holding rooms that then lead into the main arena. With the sheer number of people here today, the Strikers must have already been ushered inside. They’ll stay in there until the day they’re selected to go into the arena.

Until the day they’re scheduled to be killed.

We edge close enough to the first gate to see the details of the sliding metal door. The crowd moves around us in a swarm of festivity. No, too many people here. I glance ahead through the throngs to get a better look at the second gate.

That’s when I notice the rectangular metal slabs on the sides of some of the pillars. Vents. Memories flash back to me as a child walking through the gates, feeling the draft from overhead. Long air ducts tunnel throughout the halls underneath the arena, under every seated row. And where there are vents, there are open spaces to hide.

The metal grilles over the vents are high, near the ceiling of the curved gates, too high for an average human to reach. But for Jeran and me, they’re within reaching distance. If we worm our way inside them, we can travel undetected through the ducts to search the holding rooms.

I tap Jeran once and, without explaining, let the crowd sweep us toward one of the gates. Fewer people gather under these shaded entryways, which means Jeran and I can slip in behind the pillars on either side of the gate, partly hidden and forgotten as the rest of the crowd mills restlessly around the entrance doors to the holding rooms on the off chance of glimpsing the prisoners.

Jeran looks puzzled by what I’m doing, but he doesn’t react. Instead, he watches me as I study the metal grille above us. Then, hidden in the shadows behind the pillar, I pull myself up stone by stone and then push off with my boots as hard as I can. It’s enough for me to reach the edge of the grille. I take a knife from my belt and worm it between the grille and its frame, then push.

My wings may be damaged, but my strength is still intact. The force of my shove is enough to pop off the grille so it can swing open. I lift myself higher to peer into the dark tunnel it reveals. Sure enough, it’s an air duct, its cool, circulating breeze combing through my hair.

I look down at Jeran, who has caught on. He climbs lightly up the pillar, his boots finding the tiniest footholds. I crawl into the vent, then move forward to give him room. A moment later, Jeran appears behind me. I hear the faint clink from him replacing the metal grille.

We exchange a brief smile. Then I turn forward and begin making my way through the duct.