Beyond them, silk-draped tents burst out from it in every direction like flame-colored rays. The crowd surrounds us in a dizzying circle—onlookers draped in sun-bleached linens, embroidered tunics, and metallic accents that glint and flash in the harsh light.
Cases line the back of the stage, their glass fronts warped and rippled. Each holds what looks like relics of past performances—faded masks, hoops blackened and charred at the edges, costumes reduced to delicate scraps of silk now pinned in place like butterflies in a display box. Each is labeled like an artifact in a forgotten museum.
An elaborate open tent rises across from us, terra-cotta and ruby silks draped to shade the section of ornate seats elevated on a crescent-shaped dais made of gleaming black stone. Two women recline at its center, unmistakably regal. Flame-shaped crowns perch on their heads, all sharp points and scarlet glint. Their robes shimmer like liquid copper, and thick, dramatic eye makeup fans out toward their temples in wings of glittering fire.
People fan out around them, dressed in robes and jewels with flame-shaped collars and pinched faces.
It feels ceremonial. It feels claustrophobic. It feels exactly like the kind of place where people get publicly executed.
Above, birds wheel through the sky, their cries carrying faintly. My gaze follows them up, then out until it catches on the horizon and the nothingness of endless dunes.
The beat of drums vibrates the platform beneath our feet as more guards arrive, weapons drawn, flanking us in a semicircle of steel. We’re forced to the center, directly under the relentless eye of the sun. Giant brass braziers blaze along the edge of the stage, flames licking skyward.
Declan stands beside me, tall but extremely silent. Like he thinks if he’s quiet and grumpy, this will all resolve itself. Maybe the guards will be so overwhelmed by the sheer breadth of his shoulders that they’ll just let us go.
He is insufferable. Meeting him in person is every bit the disaster I knew it would be.
“If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself,” I grumble.
I clear my throat and step forward. The guards respond instantly, swords lifting, the line they hold behind us inching closer.
“Hi,” I say brightly, even as panic sparks beneath my skin like static on a sweater. “So…slight misunderstanding.”
“State your names,” one of the crowned women snaps. Her voice cracks through the heat like a whip as she straightens her shoulders and cranes her long neck.
I glance at Declan, who remains frustratingly silent. He’s calm, cool, and collected. A statue with high cheekbones and the emotional range of granite.
“I’m Amanda,” I say, voice catching. “This is Declan. We’re not spies.”
“Do tell me and my dear queen sister who you are and what you are doing in our great kingdom,” the second crowned woman demands. She’s younger than the first, her coal-black hair piled high beneath a crown that juts out like rising flames.
“We’re travelers.” There’s a knot in my throat, and I start cycling through affirmations like radio stations.I am calm. I am grounded. I am definitely not about to die.
“My sister and I are of the same mind,” the first resumes, brushing her corn silk curls from deep-umber shoulders. “You have not, however, told us what you are doing within the bounds of our Kingdom of Wands.”
“That is a good question.” I draw out each syllable while turning to glare at Declan in hopes of lighting him on fire.
“We’re passing through,” he says. “If there’s nothing else, we’ll be on our way.”
Relief flickers through me. He’s finally saying something, finallydoingsomething. Then he takes a step toward the ramp, and the guards lunge forward in unison. The flames in the braziers encircling the stage flare. The stifling heat cinches around my chest.
The dark-haired queen fixes him with a narrowed gaze. “Members of the masked guard from the Kingdom of Cups also claimed they were not spies when they crossed into our lands. Do you wish to know their fate?”
“I think I can infer,” Declan says evenly.
The flames crack. The wind hisses.
“They are dead. Burned at the stake. That is what my sister and I do to spies.”
“Understood.” Declan lifts his hands, a calculated gesture of surrender, but his voice never loses its cool edge. “But we are not spies. We are travelers, unarmed, caught in circumstances beyond our control. I believe there’s an opportunity here to turn a chance encounter into something mutually beneficial. My companion and I have skills, resources, knowledge—”
I elbow him, and shoot him a warning look, equalparts panic and please-shut-up-before-you-overpromise-and-get-us-killed.
The queens shift, the smallest flicker of intrigue.
Declan presses forward, sensing an opening. “We would be honored to put them to use in service of your kingdom. My family has built alliances across continents—mergers, rescues, profitable turnarounds. I can recognize an opportunity when it appears.”
The dark-haired queen arches one brow and lifts her pointed chin, bidding him to continue.
