I can’t see the prelate’s face, but I can hear what almost sounds like delight in her words when she says, “It will be assumed that those who refuse are hiding the curse.”
“How is not wanting to go out on a rooftop during a dragon attack any sign of the curse?” one of the latecomers, Dazni, asks. His sunken eyes are blazing in the shadows of their sockets. Bruises dot his skin. The other two latecomers—the twins—slide in closer to him as others cast wary looks their way, maintaining a full step of separation even in the cramped hall.
“Being in the presence of a dragon can force the dragon curse to activate. Therefore, any who avoid being near one will be presumed cursed and will be shown Mercy.” The prelate continues to exude utter calm. I think she gets some kind of sadistic amusement from this, and IhopeI’m wrong.
Given no choice, the supplicants at the front begin to march out onto the exposed rooftop.
One woman stops at the threshold. Yenni, one of Horowin’s group. Of course a girl who spent her life in the Undercrustwould be terrified by this prospect. Even those of us who have grown up under the skies are terrified.
“I can’t.” Her words quiver.
“Go,” the prelate commands coldly.
“I can’t go out there. A dragon will kill me. You can’t honestly expect us to go out there.” She pleads to the prelate’s compassion—her better sense. A futile endeavor, from all I’ve seen.
“Go, or you will be assumed cursed.” There is no emotion behind the words, a simple statement of fact.
I try to push forward, but there’s no way. We’re too compacted in the narrow passage. No one is moving; we’re all blocked by Yenni and the prelate.
“Please, I’m not cursed… I don’t want to die.” Yenni worries the end of her braid.
“This is your last warning,” the prelate snaps.
Yenni tries to take a step forward but falters. She shakes her head and lets out a whimper, turning. We all watch her eyes go wide as the prelate’s dagger sinks between her ribs.
She’s so weak and malnourished, she barely has enough life to let out a shocked, choking noise before she collapses into the prelate. The head of the inquisitors tosses her body aside, out the door to the rooftop. Another inquisitor moves to collect the corpse.
“Leave it,” the prelate commands. “Fresh blood will draw them.”
My hands ball into fists. From the first night on the rooftop, I didn’t trust her. Iknewshe was waiting for an excuse to strike me with that baton.
No one moves. Everyone stares in stunned silence. Someone behind me begins to hyperventilate.
“Move!” she snaps.
We march once more. My hands are shaking, knees weak. I’m going to throw up. The only thing that keeps me moving is whenI reach behind me with both hands and Saipha’s fingers lock against mine in my right hand. And Lucan in my left. Saipha trembles, too. She’s just as terrified as I am. Somehow, that makes me feel better. And then the guilt of taking solace in her fear makes me feel worse.
But all emotions leave me the moment we cross the threshold. I suck in a gulp of cool nighttime air, and my eyes are drawn to the sky.
It’s another overcast evening. This time, the moon is full enough that the drifting clouds are mostly illuminated. Dark shadows dart between them. Wide wings. I immediately see four of them.
Four dragons.
A once-in-a-decade attack.
Still forcing myself to move, we shuffle toward the group of supplicants that is condensing at the center of the rooftop. Ulven kneels by Yenni’s body, and Horowin and the others from the Undercrust stand nearby in shock. Wind whistles softly in my ears like an ominous undercurrent to the rising cacophony of a city in panic.
“You should go mourn your friend.” Cindel pushes Dazni, and I swear I see one of the twins hold the other back from punching her. A part of me wishes they wouldn’t—Cindel should get what’s coming to her eventually. But they don’t look strong enough to stand up in a fight, and now is not the time. “You’re all Undercrust cowards.” Cindel casts a withering gaze their way and leaves.
Lucan pulls us off to the side farthest from the body. “We don’t want to be an easy target,” he whispers. “Seeing so many together, vulnerable, might draw a dragon.”
I look up at him, searching his face for some kind of fear.
But his brow is furrowed with intensity. In fact, he doesn’t seem afraid at all. If anything, he’s furious. He’s ready to roarlouder than the cry of the dragon that screeches across the sky and sends half of the supplicants to their knees, covering their heads, muttering as our thoughts scatter once more.
He looks like a Mercy Knight, already vetted and ready to do battle.
A dragon swoops down, charging the wall in the distance. The pale moonlight might just be playing tricks on my eyes, but I think it’s a Silver Dragon. Mercy Knights fire ballistae and weighted nets, covering its wings. The ropes, even woven from metal, won’t hold its steely wings for long—every scale is sharper than a knife. Knights rush the beast, overwhelming it. Silver Dragons are hard to shoot down from the sky, given most projectiles do nothing to them and they’re too nimble for cannon fire. So getting in close is the best chance to get under their scales.
