Keep going, I urge myself. It’s too late to turn back now.

I step through the doors, and a trail of diamond-shaped tiles leads me through the heart of the building. It isn’t long before I find myself in the main ballroom.

Flowers are draped over every surface, with floating lights hovering above the room like stars. The sound of a live orchestra fills the room, but I can’t see any musicians. Not that it would be easy to spot them, because all around me are Residents in elaborate ballgowns and fantastical suits. Most of them wear headpieces so garishly ridiculous that it looks more like a costume party than an event hosted by a prince.

But they waltz and laugh and drink from overflowing champagne flutes like they’re having the time of their lives.

I make my way toward the sliding glass doors at the back of the room, eager to get as far away from the dancing as I can, and emerge onto a balcony that’s as wide as the building. When I reach the railing, I peer over the edge and take in the beauty of the garden below.

Residents are scattered around the courtyard, drinks and appetizers in hand. They’re busy admiring the abundance of sculptures nestled within the flower beds, some made of marble and others made of glass. And above us are more floating lanterns, enchanted to remain in place but flickering like they hide true flames in their hearts.

I grip the banister, feeling the scratch of stone beneath my fingertips. All of this—it’s overwhelming. It’s too much to take in, too much to absorb.

But there are secrets here. Secrets the Colony needs.

I push away from the railing and head for one of the staircases, but I’m distracted by a room at the other end of the balcony. Behind several enormous windows is a room with black walls, lit only by the dim lights above each painting.

The gallery.

My curiosity gets the better of me, and I move away from the stairs and step through the open door instead. It’s quiet inside—everyone else would rather be in the midst of the party, probably because they’ve seen these paintings a hundred times before.

But I haven’t, and I might never get the chance again.

Wandering through a gallery alone is not at all what Annika meant by blending in. But I want to see the spoils of Victory. I want to see what human lives are worth to them.

I follow painting after painting through the halls, soaking in the dark colors and peculiar expressions. Most of the oil paintings in art galleries have always been a bit depressing to me, but the artistry here isn’t just sadness. It’s pain.