“The prince said we shouldn’t be seen.”

“You have a better idea? Fortunately, the catacomb guard is always someone Elisa trusts completely, so we can count on him to be discreet.”

“What about a distraction?”

“The guard will never desert his post. Not for anything. The last one who did that was executed by Luz-Manuel, the former General.”

“Whatever is down there must be extremely important.”

“Yes. Now hush. I have to listen.”

I put my ear to the door of the storage closet and listen for footsteps. Nothing. Quietly, gradually, I crack the door open and peek outside. The corridor is clear.

“Now let’s go,” I say. “Quickly.”

We dart from the storage closet and close the door softly behind us. This corridor is one of the oldest in the palace, made of bulging river rock set into mortar three fingers thick. The cobblestones are worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. Flickering torchlight turns the floor from iron gray to soft orange.

The corridor dead-ends at the entrance to the catacombs, and sure enough, a tall, broad-shouldered man stands guard, dressed in his formal breastplate, armed with both sword and bow.

“Hello, Fernando,” I say.

“Lady Red,” he acknowledges.

“Just Recruit Red, now. I thought you’d be with Elisa.”

He gives me a wry grin. “Alas, a very few of us are stuck here. There’s still a prince to protect, you see.” Fernando lowers his voice. “I hear you made quite an impression on your first day.”

I frown, and Fernando gives me a sympathetic smile. “The prince said to expect you. Hurry inside before someone sees.” With that, he opens the door and gestures for us to enter.

Fernando shuts the door behind us. We’re in a narrow, dark tunnel, but an orange glow testifies to something ahead.

“Stay close,” I order.

“Are you always this bossy and disagreeable?” Iván asks.

“I’m usually laughing and inquisitive. Must be the company.”

“Huh. I’ve heard that Inviernos don’t understand sarcasm, but you wield it with ease.”

“I’m Joyan, you daft dung beetle.”

“But your skin . . . those golden eyes . . .”

“Don’t confuse my ancestry with my nationality. Joya d’Arena is my home, and I’d give my life for it.”

“So you admit you have Invierno blood—” Iván’s thought dies on his lips, for we have reached the Hall of Skulls.

It’s a cathedral of bones, with archways made of human ribs and walls made of human skulls. Thousands of people must have died to create this space because there are so many bones, layered atop one another, pressing down. In the desert, bones are always white, bleached by the relentless sun. Here, they are as gray as stone.

I hate this place. Rows of votive candles are supposed to create a warm and sacred glow, but it just feels fiery and cruel, a reminder that death is too harsh, too final. Strangely, Elisa loves it here. She says it reminds her that death is an important foundation of her great city, and that something of the dead can last forever.