I tuck the dagger in my belt and slowly lift a hand.

“I’m trusting you,” I whisper to the wind.

The shapeless being stretches toward me, and I wait to feel it brush against my fingers. And then, without any warning at all, it leaps. I feel it against me, and then inside me, and my entire body shudders against the cold. I try to scream, but it’s too late.

My eyes flash white, and the Labyrinth dissolves.

29

THE METAL RESTRAINTS GRIP MY wrists, and I fight to break free.

Except I’m not me. I’m him.

I can feel his consciousness through the Exchange. I can feel the way his memories settle firmly into my mind, like they’re a part of me now too.

His name is Philo. He was thirty-two years old when he died. And he didn’t take the pill.

The memory takes control of my body like I’m on autopilot, and I couldn’t fight it even if I wanted to.

I try to kick my legs, but they’re restrained as well. Everywhere I look, the walls are mirrored, making me dizzy with clones of myself, like I’m trapped in an optical illusion. I focus my sight, catching a glimpse of curly black hair and dried blood that’s coated across my face.

Somehow I know it’s not my blood. It belongs to the others—the ones I can only hope managed to get away.

Otherwise my sacrifice, and the information I risked everything to find, will all be for nothing.

A door slides open, and three Residents walk into the room. One has blond hair pinned in several braids, and she’s wearing orange silk wrapped around her torso and a matching pair of pants that cuff at her ankles. The second wears a black hood that conceals their face. And the third has dark hair faded at the sides, broad shoulders, and wears pale green robes.

I know I’ve seen his face before, but I can’t quite remember where.

The blond Resident speaks first. “I’ve made the necessary preparations, but as you can see, the human is still aware.” She looks hesitant. “I was under the impression the humans coming in from War had already surrendered.”

“This one didn’t come from War,” the familiar one replies, voice as smooth as caramel. “He was a gift from Victory.”

“Prince Caelan sent him here?” She arches a brow in surprise.

The hooded figure stands silent, hands relaxed at their sides.

“It’s not as if I can ask Ettore for test subjects,” the third Resident replies distastefully. He lifts his chin, and the light chases away the shadows on his dark skin.

That’s when I recognize him. Prince Lysander of Death, but without his headdress of golden spikes.

Does that mean I’m…?