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Quoll is next. He clings a little longer than I expect. “Kill them all and come home. I’ll never forgive you if you don’t.” He moves away, wiping at his eyes.

Colt and Fawn are easier in their own way. They give me big hugs and then allow Pika to guide them back to their breakfast. I turn to find Mouse waiting with a pair of cloaks in his arms. They’re both threadbare and faded into a colorless gray that might have been blue at the start of their lives, or possibly black. They’re also the nicest things I’ve ever owned.

I swing a cloak around my shoulders and walk out the door without looking back, Mouse at my heels. We climb down, taking a different route from Mara’s dramatic exit, just as the strike criers sound the eighth strike. It will take too much time to go the usual route, so we have to risk the street and the most direct path. We have four strikes before the Culling, but we have to travel all the way through the Peridot District before turning north to the bridge into the Wands District. It would be faster to cut directly through the Diamond District, but even with the new-to-us cloaks, we’d stand out too much and run the risk of the Wands taking interest. Getting held up by city-sanctioned bullies on a power trip isn’t an option today.

The irony of intentionally seeking the Wands arena now, when normally it’s a fate to be avoided at all costs, might amuse me if I weren’t so nervous. “You don’t have to come with me.” No matter what happens at the Culling, Mouse will be left to make his way back home alone. His body isn’t as spry as it used to be, though his mind is still sharp. He could be attacked. Or twist his ankle. Or …

I should have asked Mara to come. It would hurt her to see the violence, but at least I’d know Mouse would get home safely.

“I’m going.” There’s no give in his tone. The last time—the only time—he escorted someone to the arena to join the Trials, it was my mother. They were both so young and hopeful, at least from the way he tells it. Neither of them could have guessed how that story would end, with her dead and him left to raise the daughter of the woman he loved—or at least cared for very deeply.

I hear the Peridot District before we turn the corner and see it. The Dregs is hardly a peaceful and quiet place, but Peridot never sleeps. The entire city depends on the resources brought in and shipped out by sea and river, which results in people coming and going at all strikes. Most of the businesses only take time off at midday and the darkest part of the night. I love it, and not only because it’s much easier to lift purses and valuables from strangers to Caelria than it is from guild members who live here.

We are one of three city-states that exist on Zaersia, a continent overrun by the wilds and the creatures that call them home. The only way to travel safely is by river, and even that isn’t a guarantee that a person or a shipment will reach their destination. Whoever settled Caelria somewhere north of a thousand years ago looked around and realized this was the most strategic place to plant a city. We crouch on the mouth of the Saevus River, and encompass the fork where it turns into the Verso River and moves east to the city-state Grexium. The Saevus runs the full length of the continent, beginning to the north in the city-state Perphodia. Neither of the other city-states have ports and their respective rivers only meet within Caelria’s walls. As a result, all trade comes through Caelria, and more specifically, through Peridot.

I can’t find my normal excitement to walk through Peridot streets today. Not with the Culling hanging over my head. What if I don’t even make it to the dais? What if a lifetime of training has been for nothing? It will kill Mouse to watch me die today, knowing he put me on this path. I can’t let it happen. I won’t.

Moving from the shadow of the wall allows the Sun to brush my face. It’s warm and welcoming and, if I were a little more sentimental, I might believe this was a promise that things will turn out for the best. Portents are more Mara’s thing than mine, though.

I keep one eye on Mouse—he’s not as healthy as he used to be, and this is a particularly long walk—as I study the people around us. We pass a group of Grexs escorting a cart of chickens. They’re dressed similar to us in short tunics and pants, albeit their clothing is of significantly better quality and hasn’t been mended until it’s more patches than original fabric. The chickens don’t seem happy to be here, squawking and flapping and generally making an absolute ruckus.

We keep going, moving through a small market that pops up a few times a week. It’s usually filled with traders about to sail away from Caelria and wanting to make a last little bit of profit—and not have to carry any more goods home than strictly necessary. There must have been a shipment down from Perphodia recently because there are half a dozen people trying to hawk gemstones—they’d have better luck in the Garnet District, seeing as how gemstones are their specialty, but maybe they already tried that. I nearly bump into a woman, her distinctive pink-red cloak marking her as a member of the Ruby Guild. She gives me a faint smile and keeps walking toward the closest gem merchant.

I catch sight of more Grexs, a pair this time, holding up bags of rice and shouting offers. Despite myself, I slow. “Those prices aren’t bad.” It would set us back, but rice keeps better than most other food staples, and has the bonus of being filling and adaptable to many dishes. Colt would even eat it without complaining.

“Kestrel.” Mouse grips my arm and tows me past the traders. “There isn’t time to linger.”

“Right. Sorry.” I note purses on strangers out of sheer habit, though I manage to resist the impulse to pluck them as we stride past. I smell the Saevus River before I see it. There was probably a time when it ran clear and pristine, but these days it’s the dumping ground for the Diamond Guild’s chemical runoff, the Citrine Guild’s dyes, and the entire city’s waste. Here at the mouth of the river, it’s a particularly horrible mix, especially on summer days when the heat makes everything unbearable. The result is eye-watering.

We cut north, the ground angling beneath our feet. The strike callers echo from all around us as we reach the bridge into the Wands District. We’re clearly not the only people attending the Culling, but even moving within the relative safety of a crowd isn’t enough to set me at ease. There’s no turning back now.

The moment we cross the bridge, the street turns to flagstone beneath our feet. The buildings on either side are shorter than I’m used to, only a handful of stories tall, because apparently the Wands don’t need or want to maximize the space for their people the way the rest of us do. There are water towers on most of the roofs—that, at least, is familiar. We can’t drink the sea, and the only people drinking from the river are those desperate or out of their minds. Water towers are vital to gather the regular rainfall we see in Caelria and store it for drinking water. These ones are significantly fancier than the pair of old barrels Mara and I hauled up to the apartment a few years back when the old ones started to rust and I was worried about the littles getting sick.

Naturally, the first building I actually recognize is a temple devoted to the primordial element of fire. It’s crafted of columns with no walls, so I can see all the way to the center of it with the wide metal bowl on an altar, fire licking over its edges. A priest in black robes moves around the bowl, carefully adding fuel to ensure the flames never die out. Two more priests meet the queue of people who are lined up, small bundles of sticks clutched in white-knuckled hands as they prepare to petition the fire.

When I was a child, you had to travel to one of the court districts to see a temple devoted to a primordial element. That religion belongs to the Minor Court, with each court claiming one of the elements as their patron. In the rest of the city, the temples to the Major Arcana were significantly more common. Now, so many have been broken down and replaced by temples devoted to the worship of the primordial elements, as the rot of the Minor Court creeps down the hill and takes over everything it touches.

“Kestrel.” The tension in Mouse’s tone draws my attention back to him. He jerks his chin, and I follow his gaze to where the stream of pedestrians has split around a trio of people in the center of the street. Mouse takes my arm again and tugs me closer to the buildings as we get closer. “Judgment.” One of the winners of the last Trials. One of my mother’s allies, who turned on her without hesitation.

I keep walking through sheer habit, but I stare hard at the man in the center of the group. He’s pale with short, light brown hair and a body gone soft from easy living. After winning, he carved out a slice of territory in the Diamond District just east of our home in the Dregs. As a result, he’s the member of the Cinque I’ve brushed up against most. Not him, specifically, but the bands of war dogs he sends to terrorize the Dregs whenever he’s feeling bored. This man puts people in cages, tortures them on a whim, and is easily the scariest member of the Cinque—and that’s including Death. He could have used his power to better the city, and instead he’s a petty dictator who harms those less powerful. He fought and killed at my mother’s side, but couldn’t bestir himself to speak a single word in her defense.

I didn’t expect him to look so normal.

Judgment turns toward us, his empty gaze flitting across the people in the crowd around me. Is he using the powers granted to him by the god he championed in the last Trials, identifying the guilt each person carries? It’s a horrible, invasive magic. When I was younger and more foolish, I told Mouse I wouldn’t have to worry about Judgment because I had nothing to feel guilty for, and if that was his only magic, then I would just cut him down. Mouse laughed in my face and said I wouldn’t get the chance—that if Judgment got ahold of me, I’d kneel at his feet and offer my throat just to escape the guilt he wielded over me.

I glance at Mouse, wondering if he’s thinking back to that conversation, too. He’s staring too hard at the man; he’s going to draw attention if we’re not careful. This time, it’s my turn to take his arm and pull him away. The arena is visible now, a massive building stretching across several blocks and roughly three stories tall. “We’re early enough, we should be able to get a good spot.” I hope. I don’t relish having to fight my way through hundreds of people to step onto the dais and become the Moon’s champion. It’s an impossible ask. Most people are here today to witness the Culling, not participate, but there’s no reason to decrease my chances of making it to the dais alive. Fear licks at me, propelling me to move faster.

We walk through the arching doorway and into the arena proper. It’s even bigger than I expected, the oval in the middle cut down into the earth to make the tiers circling it seem even higher. Despite there being at least a strike until the Culling begins, the benches carved into the tiers are already half full.

“This way.” Mouse takes the lead, and there’s nothing to do but follow him as he carves a path down toward the oval of sand in the center.

As much as I want to be cool and collected, this entire situation is overwhelming. On second glance, the higher tiers are clearly divided by guilds and Minor Court houses. There is the white of the Diamond Guild directly across from us, then the green of the Peridot Guild, the yellow of the Citrine Guild, the pink-red of the Ruby Guild, and the red-black of the Garnet Guild. Then there are the Minor Court citizens. Most of them won’t actually be part of the courts themselves, but they wear the colors of the districts they live in—teal and navy for Cups, white and crimson for Swords, purple and black for Wands, and green and brown for Pentacles.

The lower tiers are more of a mishmash, people wearing the same distinctive colors, but only gathered in small groups instead of whole sections. A good portion of these are prospective champions, just like me. How many of them are here for the Moon? I search for some indication, but it’s too chaotic. There could be no one. There could be dozens. I won’t know for sure until the Moon’s name is called.

Even though there are seats nearly next to the sand, Mouse picks a spot about halfway back and motions for me to sit. I hesitate, measuring the distance between where we are and the dais set up in the middle of the oval. “By the time I reach the barrier, the fight for the Moon will be over.” I can’t let that happen. This can’t all be for nothing. I shift from one foot to the other. “We should get closer.”

“We don’t need to be closer. You won’t have to fight for the Moon.” He’s said it a thousand times, and I don’t believe him now any more than I did the first time. To Mouse, being champion for the Moon is sacred, because it’s the role my mother held when she won. When she died. I highly doubt the rest of the city feels the same way. The other prospective champions won’t let something like the last Moon being executed for treason stop them from trying to claim power for themselves. There are only twenty-two champions each Trials, and there are thousands of people here, eyeing that dais and imagining what they could do if they became one of the winners in the Trials.