I take a deep breath and motion for everyone to come in close. “Pedrón, you, Luca, and Andrés are the biggest. You form a wedge and lead the way. Iván, Arturo, and I will be right behind them. The rest of you crowd in behind us.”

Everyone nods, so I continue.

“We don’t know what we’ll find when we get inside. If we get separated, everyone make their own way to Rosario. We’ll surround the steps at the bottom of the dais, so no one can attack him.”

Iván adds, “But if trouble starts, you find the nearest mercenary or fake Guardsman, anyone we don’t know and trust, and you take their weapon.”

He means “Dispatch them,” but there’s no need for me to clarify. By the looks on their faces, everyone understands. I might be the only one here who has ever had to kill someone, and even I don’t feel prepared.

I’m suddenly as scared for all of them as I am for Rosario. The prince is so determined to be brave, to go through with the ceremony; I’ve no doubt he’ll proceed even though we’re not there to protect him. And once he begins, he’ll be completely exposed.

“Everyone knows what to do,” I say, shoving Pedrón toward the door. I try not to let anyone hear the words catching in my throat. “Let’s go!”

Crushed in the middle of this mob, I can’t see a thing as we surge forward, but I hear all the protests and ultimatums that Pedrón predicted. I hold on to Pedrón’s belt as I’m jostled and stepped on. But we do not wait our turn, we do not care if anyone complains to the Guard, and we do not stop shoving.

The moment we are through the door, we get separated. The army boys surge ahead, leaving me behind. I reach after Iván, but I get bumped aside by a group of southerners who followed us through the door.

I spot the tops of Iván’s and Pedrón’s heads, and start weaving my way toward them, but I’m not moving fast enough.

The ballroom is massive, even longer than our training arena. The air is rich with flower scent, for rose garlands sweep from crystal chandeliers, running the entire length of the hall. Candelabras are aflame in high balconies, and vases overflow with night bloomers just now opening their glowing stamens to mark the night. Tables clothed in bright silk line the walls, laden with silver platters heaped with appetizers. Men in Royal Guard uniforms stand along the wall at regular intervals, but I don’t recognize a single one. They are all imposters.

I’ve attended galas over the years as the empress’s ward, but never have I seen such a crowd. There must be a thousand people here, all milling about in their annual finery, laughing and chatting and displaying themselves just so. Servants dart everywhere, clearing empty platters and picking up spilled crumbs. We weave through them all, trying to avoid the gazes of the imposter Guards, trying to reach the Hand of God, where Rosario will officially open the festivities.