I landed on my feet, but momentum made me stumble into a fall, ripping my dress and scraping my knees. Ignoring the pain, I clambered up and ran to the far side of the roof. Below was a wall. Falling to my hands and knees, I slid over the edge and dropped onto the narrow edge of stone, but before I could go any further, an explosion shook the air.

Debris and dust sailed through the streets, and if I’d still been on the roof, it would surely have killed me. Screams cut the air, and everyone was running. Slipping off the wall, I joined the ranks of fleeing trolls, running as hard and fast as I could. And I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. Couldn’t bear to see the ruin of Pierre’s home and know that he was dead. That I hadn’t been able to help him.

My breath tore in my chest as I sprinted up a flight of stairs, and then another, working my way back to where Tristan’s magic waited to pull me away from danger. I’d been living soft for too long, and even fear wasn’t enough to compensate for the exhaustion numbing my legs. My ribs ached where they’d been broken, and rounding a corner, I ground to a halt and bent nearly double, resting my hands on my knees.

Pierre was dead, and it was my fault. I’d brought them down upon him. Dead for no reason other than that he had not hidden his support for Tristan. Slaughtered for believing the half-bloods deserved a better lot in life. Dead, because I’d been powerless to help him, and because a stupid prophesy had deemed my life worth more than his. I breathed in and out, trying to stay calm, trying to keep my wits about me.

A smell brushed at my nose, and if I’d been a dog, my hackles would have risen. If I’d been standing in Trianon, where upper and lower class alike tossed night-soil into the streets, such a smell would have caused as much notice as salt from the sea. But if nothing else, Trollus was always clean. My eyes fixed on the pale stone cobbles in front of me, I watched as a crimson rivulet of blood ran by the toe of my boot. And then another. And another. My heart in my throat, I lifted my face.

The street was painted with so much blood it seemed impossible that it could have come from only one body. I stared, trying to fit the pieces back together into something – someone – recognizable, but my mind couldn’t manage it. Not with Roland kneeling in the middle of the mess, tapping the tip of a knife thoughtfully against one tooth, bright eyes fixed on me.

He doesn’t know it’s you! But did that matter? It hadn’t for the half-blood who was now only the sum of his pieces. Tristan’s name rippled through my head as I considered whether to call him down. Except I knew that if I did, it would be no less than a battle to the death. I needed to try to find another way out of this.