Walking on the balls of my feet, I cross the room, careful to look over my shoulder for any signs of movement. I reach the hallway and press myself against the wall, expecting to see another guard standing watch in front of the door.
I’m right about the guard, wrong about his standing watch. The sentry lies on the ground, slumped sideways. His leg holds the door open. Blood pools around his smashed-in skull.
El Lobo’s doing, no doubt.
I carefully step over the body and pull the door open. I make it halfway down the stone steps before the scuffling reaches my ears. Shapes move in the flickering light of a single blazing torch. Two men fight, their grunts audible from where I hide in the semidarkness. The room is large, with rows of cells lining the far wall. I can’t discern exactly who is in which cell, but I can just make out the shadowy shapes of two prisoners in each. At least two of them are the journalists. The other four prisoners must be the Illustrians who Princesa Tamaya spoke of.
There’s a loud whistling noise—El Lobo fights the guard with a slingshot. A sharp crack splits the air. I slink farther into the dark corner by the stairs. The scents of blood and sweat fill my nostrils. The victor of the fight comes into view.
El Lobo.
Question after question crowds my mind: How does he know about the prisoners? Does he have a spy in the castillo? Madre de Luna, was he at court like me, watching their horrifying torture? My skin prickles as a new question pops into my head.
Does the vigilante work in the castillo?
Juan Carlos’s face hovers at the forefront. He kept watch outside the hall’s entrance during the sentencing of the Llacsan writers. He would have seen the prisoners dragged into court and back out, wounded and bleeding, and missing both hands.
I don’t have more time to dwell on the man-in-black’s identity. El Lobo snatches the key from the iron nail and opens one of the prison doors. In the lambent light, two captives stumble out of the cell. They are missing their hands—it’s the Llacsan journalists. One of them sobs, loud hiccupping noises. Dried blood covers his chin. He’s the one who lost his tongue.
El Lobo places a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder. “We have to hurry,” he says in his low, accented rasp. “Stop your tears and help me get you out of here.”
The shorter Llacsan helps his friend toward the stairs. The remaining prisoners scramble to the bars of their cells, arms outreached, waving frantically at the vigilante. I squint into the dim dark of the dungeon and recognize the white clothing of my people.
The vigilante is leaving them behind. He’s only helping the Llacsans—a telling choice. Is he one of them? My fingers curl into a fist. He’s a breath away from their salvation. He ought to save them, too.
One Illustrian wraps his fingers around the cell bars, gripping it until his knuckles are bone white. His tunic and pants are smeared in filth. “Lobo,” he whispers.“Por favor.”
The man in black urges the journalists toward the stairs and glances over his shoulder to the remaining four prisoners. My throat goes dry. He deliberates for one long moment before yanking the key from the first cell and opening the other doors. El Lobo rushes inside and helps the Illustrians to their feet. They’re all too thin, with jutting cheekbones and deep shadows under their eyes.
“Why do you help us, too?” one of them whispers as the vigilante scoops her up in his arms.
“I wouldn’t wish your fate on anyone,” he rasps. “Up the stairs, the rest of you. Hurry.”
They move, and I trail behind them, my heart hammering in my chest. Would I have done the same? Would I have helped the Llacsan prisoners, or just my own?
I’m afraid of the answer.
I hope that I would have.
El Lobo leads them to the same side entrance I entered the castillo through. He gently sets the woman on her feet. Pulling out his sword, he attempts to push open the door, but the sleeping guard blocks his path.
He shoves the man out of the way and motions for everyone to follow him. The group heads straight into the garden. We’re right below my balcony. I tilt my head back and catch the silhouette of the woven anaconda. It starts to creep over the rail, but I let out a low whistle while frantically shaking my head. It hisses, but mercifully retreats.
El Lobo leads the prisoners farther into the garden. I follow—and freeze. Six robed figures emerge from behind the thick tree trunks of the toborochi trees. Each carries a long, thin blade. Sajra’s spies. Six men against El Lobo and the weak prisoners.
I see red. In seconds I’ve drawn my sword. I don’t stop to think. I charge at the closest spy within reach. He spins in time to block what would have been a direct hit, but I manage to pierce his side.
El Lobo whirls around too, and the prisoners huddle behind him. He takes a step forward, brandishing his sword.
“No, you idiot!” I shout. “Get them out of here!”
There are too many of them. If he joins the fight, he’ll risk the prisoners’ lives. He can’t take on these men. But I can. My body hums in anticipation.
I launch a kick at my attacker’s temple and drive my blade into his heart without a second thought. These men are loyal to Sajra, who maimed the journalists. He wanted to keep them silent, destroy their ability to write their protests. I cannot stand for that. Another spy rushes at me from behind. I vault sideways to avoid the thrust. Pivoting, I land a blow on the man’s shoulder. He aims for my exposed side, and I barely have time to dodge the blade.
With a hoarse cry, I slash at his head, but he ducks in time. My blade shears off the tip of his hood. Throughout all of this, the vigilante hesitates.
“Get them out,” I snap, swinging my sword around. “Or this will have been for nothing!”
