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Cato and Vesper are so tense on either side of me, they’re practically vibrating. The temptation to keep looking around is strong, but I manage to keep my attention on the king. That’s what she wants, after all.

“With Caelria’s population constantly threatening to outstrip our resources, even with our beneficial trade agreements, the Wands have continually attempted to advance agendas that would address the overpopulation.”

Cheers go up around me, roars from thousands of throats. I shudder. I’ve never felt in more danger than I do in this moment, surrounded by Wands ready to see blood spill.

The king makes a graceful motion to demand silence. Once it’s granted, she continues. “Our Concilium brethren haven’t seen fit to take our advice, and yet enacting the Swords’ judgment falls to the Wands.” A slight sneer that she doesn’t quite direct at Vesper, but the implication is there all the same. “With that in mind, prisoners destined for death are given a chance to choose their method. While most take the coward’s way out, many are willing to fall as warriors. With honor.”

Honor. What a joke. Honor is a privilege of those with the ability to choose. Most of us don’t have that option. If torn between honor and survival, survival will always win.

“Our prisoners tonight are guilty of murder, rape, and terrorism against our beloved city.”

I tense. What the fuck do they qualify as terrorism? I’ve never heard of that charge leveled at a person. And what rapists actually get arrested, let alone receive the death penalty? If someone’s naive enough to report an assault of that nature, they’re usually laughed out of the room by the Wands, ending up more traumatized than they were by the initial violence.

“Shall we begin?”

The roar in answer shakes the very ground beneath my feet. These Wands don’t see the prisoners as people. They see them as entertainment. It makes my stomach twist itself into knots. The three doors open, each emitting a trio of people. Nine people. Nine champions left in the Trials. It’s impossible not to see the correlation, but it’s the High Priestess’s gasp that forces true understanding.

She’s got one hand to her mouth, her eyes wide as her gaze is glued to a woman who could be her sister. They have the same blue-black skin, the same petite build. What’s going on?

Then Cato goes still. “That’s Calvin. What the fuck is he doing here?” I follow his line of sight to a tall man with pale skin and sandy-blond hair.

Vesper curses under their breath. “No. Damn it, no. Dea was found innocent. I found her innocent. She shouldn’t be here.”

Death must have known this would happen. He sits still and cold, his expression unchanged. The Tower shows no emotion, but I’ve always had a hard time reading him. The Chariot and the Star look bored.

The Chariot actually laughs, loud and boisterous. “Nice try, Dahlia, but we all knew this was coming. I already ensured you wouldn’t get your hands on my favorites.”

They knew this was coming? I look to Death again, to the Star, to the Chariot. No surprise on their faces. Did the Wands do something similar in the last Trials? If they did … why didn’t Mouse warn me? This is far too public a spectacle for him to have missed.

Why didn’t he warn me?

The Chariot leans forward with a grin. “Truth be told, I don’t even remember this one’s name.”

“His name is Luce,” Cato whispers, sounding sick. “He was a sailor before … before. He likes to weave flower crowns for the kids.”

In the arena, some of the prisoners are wielding weapons. I have no idea where they got them from, but of course the Wands wouldn’t be satisfied with them beating each other to death with their bare hands. I frantically scan the faces of the people, searching for one I recognize. They’ll be here. Someone I care about. Someone whose death will hurt me. The cruelty of this demonstration is unimaginable, even for the Wands.

And then I see her, a scrawny woman with pale skin and muddy brown hair. Mara. “No.” This can’t be right. Mara has the fastest hands I’ve ever seen. She’s never been caught by the Wands, not once. She promised to protect Mouse and the littles. She …

She’s in the arena, sentenced to die right before my eyes.

I start to stand, but Vesper grabs my hand and laces their fingers through mine. They grip me tightly enough to make my bones grind together painfully. But not painfully enough for me to drag my attention from Mara as she sprints across the sand, rolling and coming up with a dagger. It looks so tiny in her hands. She’s not a fighter. She never has been. She can’t even throw a punch. I tried to teach her once and … “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. We have to—” I surge up again, only to be brought short by Cato’s hand on my thigh, his strong fingers digging into the muscle.

“Don’t,” he chokes out. His attention flicks between Calvin and Luce, horror thick in his dark brown eyes. They’re standing back-to-back, clearly working on a strategy. It won’t work—if they’re here, then they’re destined for death—and yet I hope I’m wrong. Cato clears his throat, but his voice is still so thick I can barely understand his words. “You can’t help them. None of us can.”

“This is wrong.” I suck in a harsh breath as the High Priestess cries out. Whoever that woman was to her, she’s dead, cut down by Calvin as she ran to attack him. “We have to stop this.”

“We can’t,” Vesper whispers. If they had sounded collected in this moment, I might hate them, but those two words are broken. “There’s nothing we can do but witness.”

“Fuck that.” I try to pry Cato’s hand off my thigh. “Let me go.” I thought for certain the Wands would have no way of finding my family. Did Mara get taken instead of Mouse? Instead of Quoll or Pika? She’s in that arena, fighting for her life, because of me.

Cato digs his fingers into my muscle even harder. “If you interfere, they’ll have grounds to kill you.”

“I don’t care.” I have to get out there. Mara’s not a fighter. She’s fast enough that she’s never had to fight. Most of her marks don’t even realize they’ve been robbed until long after it’s happened. She used to make a game of lifting things from my pockets, and if I didn’t notice quickly enough, she’d start counting out loud. I almost never noticed quickly enough. “She doesn’t deserve to die.”

This is what the Minor Court is. They call us rats, but they’re the plague on the city.

A shadow falls over our table and all three of us jolt and look up and up and up again at the Tower. He plants his hands on the table and leans over, his broad body blocking our view of the violence playing out in the sand behind him. “Look at me, Kestrel. Not at them.”