All around us, people are dressed in the colors of Karensa. They’re happy and laughing, hungry as they wait in lines at the food stalls, giddy to see what’s going to happen in the arena on each day. I watch them go about their celebrations with a surreal sense of shame. I used to be that little boy, waiting in line for fried cheese. I used to be the one running into the arena, curious about what new entertainment they would have for the day. Now I’m here, heart in my throat, waiting to see if my friends will be the ones forced to amuse this crowd.
The masses thicken as we draw closer. The structure is a perfect circle. Through a dozen different gates embedded into its curved outer wall, there are a dozen different holding rooms that then lead into the main arena. With the sheer number of people here today, the Strikers must have already been ushered inside. They’ll stay in there until the day they’re selected to go into the arena.
Until the day they’re scheduled to be killed.
We edge close enough to the first gate to see the details of the sliding metal door. The crowd moves around us in a swarm of festivity. No, too many people here. I glance ahead through the throngs to get a better look at the second gate.
That’s when I notice the rectangular metal slabs on the sides ofsome of the pillars. Vents. Memories flash back to me as a child walking through the gates, feeling the draft from overhead. Long air ducts tunnel throughout the halls underneath the arena, under every seated row. And where there are vents, there are open spaces to hide.
The metal grilles over the vents are high, near the ceiling of the curved gates, too high for an average human to reach. But for Jeran and me, they’re within reaching distance. If we worm our way inside them, we can travel undetected through the ducts to search the holding rooms.
I tap Jeran once and, without explaining, let the crowd sweep us toward one of the gates. Fewer people gather under these shaded entryways, which means Jeran and I can slip in behind the pillars on either side of the gate, partly hidden and forgotten as the rest of the crowd mills restlessly around the entrance doors to the holding rooms on the off chance of glimpsing the prisoners.
Jeran looks puzzled by what I’m doing, but he doesn’t react. Instead, he watches me as I study the metal grille above us. Then, hidden in the shadows behind the pillar, I pull myself up stone by stone and then push off with my boots as hard as I can. It’s enough for me to reach the edge of the grille. I take a knife from my belt and worm it between the grille and its frame, then push.
My wings may be damaged, but my strength is still intact. The force of my shove is enough to pop off the grille so it can swing open. I lift myself higher to peer into the dark tunnel it reveals. Sure enough, it’s an air duct, its cool, circulating breeze combing through my hair.
I look down at Jeran, who has caught on. He climbs lightly up the pillar, his boots finding the tiniest footholds. I crawl into the vent, then move forward to give him room. A moment later, Jeran appears behind me. I hear the faint clink from him replacing the metal grille.
We exchange a brief smile. Then I turn forward and begin making my way through the duct.
It’s cool inside the hall of holding rooms. The duct curves, following the arc of the wall, and we move with it. All along the way, thin slats in the side of the duct give us a faint view of the corridor below.
Two guards stand at each holding room’s door. We stay quiet in the shadows of the rafters, looking through the slats as scarlet-clad soldiers march by in regular intervals. None of them bother to look up at the duct running along the ceiling—none of them seem concerned.
We listen for a while, catching bits of their conversations as they go. Their focus seems to be on the prisoners who’ve just arrived, but as they talk and laugh, I see them do what I used to do—passing bets on slips of paper between them. Likely on whom they think will win the games over the next few days. As they tease one another, I study the rest of the hall.
The number of soldiers at the arena is numerous—but not as much as I’d expect. That’s a surprise. Back when I lived in this city, there’d be at least a dozen patrols of six, all assigned to this area of the arena alone. Now I count three. Where are the rest?
I wait carefully until there’s a brief pause between clusters of soldiers, then continue without a sound along the tunnel. Jeran moves in a silent crouch as he glances inside each of the rooms across the hall below, looking past the grates for any sign of someone familiar. He has been the more careful one of us, but now his movements take on urgency that’s rare in him. I have only ever seen it once. It was on the battlefield during our final stand, and it was to protect Aramin.
He stops abruptly. Everything in him freezes. Then he glances over his shoulder at me and nods once.
The door is a series of wide metal bars, and through them, I findmyself looking into a dimly lit room at the shadowed faces of Adena and Aramin. No sign of Tomm or Pira, who must be kept in a different room. Both of them are so heavily chained that it looks ridiculous; shackles on their wrists and ankles, waists and neck, all of them connected to the wall, while half a dozen guards stand outside their door—three facing them, three facing the hall.
My heart sinks. Constantine fully intends for them to participate in the game tomorrow.
Being held here, they will be hard to get out. The keys that unlock these prison doors and their chains are not keys at all, but strings of numbers input as a code. The codes are kept at the palace itself, accessible likely only by the Premier’s personal guard.
One of the soldiers is saying something to Adena, but she doesn’t pay him any attention. Neither she nor Aramin looks up where we are crouched in the shadows, watching from our small opening. Instead, they sit across from each other in the room with their arms weighed down, leaning against their knees as they ignore the guard speaking to them.
A knot sits thick in my throat. I can only imagine the emotions coursing through Jeran, but even in the darkness, I can tell that he is trembling all over. He keeps his eyes fixed on Aramin, his gaze darting slightly about as if he is studying the chains and wondering whether there is any way we can break them free.
The thought crowds my mind too. But I know it will be impossible. The crowds today are too thick, and the focus on these prisoners too strong. Everyone is here to watch them perform. Too many eyes.
But what if you could cut through the guards, past those cell doors and their chains?
No. I can’t fly. My wings are too far damaged, and without reliance on my flight, it will be too hard to force our way in, cause acommotion, and then try to get them out of the city without attracting the attention of every guard in the city. The Premier will know—he will probably send Talin to face us. Ghosts will be released from their pens around the city’s military complexes and the lab.
I shake my head in silent frustration as two of the guards rotate out. Beside me, Jeran glances at me and seems to guess what I’m struggling with. His hands flicker in the dim light.
“Smaller shifts,” he signs to me, pointing down at the moving soldiers below. “More frequent.”
I nod grimly. There is a pattern to the soldiers they’ve positioned. And when I glance up to the corners of the ceiling, I notice curved rims of mirrors strategically placed. They are designed so that there is no inch of this floor unseen by the guards, no matter where the soldiers stand. They can see a reflection of every curve against this wall. We’ll have to knock them out if we’re to set foot outside this vent.
I do my best to sign this to Jeran. He shakes his head, frowning a few times, but eventually gets the gist of my efforts when he looks at the mirrors.
We settle back to study the soldiers again. No matter how we look at them, we both reach the same conclusion. There is nothing we can do to get them out right now. We are as helpless as if we were standing on opposite shores of an ocean.
