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The security droids scanned our retinas, and the doors swung open. We stepped inside the Grand Hall, the heavy steel sealing shut behind us to cut off the roar of the crowd and replace it with the polite murmur of the elite.

I stepped onto the plush carpet, the heels of my shoes sinking into the gold-threaded wool. Above us, anti-grav chandeliers drifted, casting a shifting light that caught the sheen on Leander’s brow. We navigated between tables laden with food most Sectors hadn’t seen in a decade, towers of fruit and roasted meats that smelled suffocatingly rich, and I steered Leander past a fountain of wine, keeping my grip tight on his arm as the swells of a string quartet floated through the air.

Watching from the mezzanine, swirling a glass of amber liquid, was Director Tegula.

He caught my eye. He nodded once.

Good dog.

I felt sick.

Then, near the base of the mezzanine stairs, under the largest of the drifting chandeliers, a woman in red tilted her glass to the light, and my body filed its report before my brain approved it: a tightness at the base of my jaw, in the precise spot where a ringed hand had gripped my chin when I was eight years old and tilted my face toward a chandelier very much like this one.

Madame Koresh. Head of the Genetic Board, the same board that had published Leander’s stud sheet this morning.

She hadn’t seen me yet, small comfort.

Anatol Getha stood near the buffet, surrounded by his defensive line, wearing a tuxedo that strained at the seams, a glass of wine looking tiny in his massive hand.

He tapped his nose. The panic spiked in my chest again. I was wearing a suit worth ten thousand credits, standing in a room full of the most powerful people in the nation, and I felt like I was naked in the snow.

“Steady,” Leander murmured.

He was watching me with a furrowed brow, having felt the flinch travel down my arm, and he followed my gaze across the room until he found Anatol Getha at the end of it.

“Why are you so fucking afraid of him?” Leander whispered. “He’s just a goalkeeper.”

“I’m not afraid,” I lied.

“You’re shaking, Felix.”

“It’s the adrenaline,” I said, straightening my cuffs. “Just... stay close. Don’t talk to anyone unless I signal you. And for fuck’s sake, don’t eat with your hands.”

CHAPTER 19

LEANDER

The Grand Hall was a kaleidoscope of gold and crystal designed to blind you.

The chandeliers drifted overhead like jellyfish made of diamonds, casting a shifting light over the crowd, and my shoes sank into carpet so thick it felt like walking on moss. It was a room built to make you forget that outside these triple-reinforced walls, the rest of the country was eating nutrient paste and waiting for the draft lottery.

“Shoulders back,” Felix murmured, barely moving his lips. “You look like you’re stalking prey.”

“I am,” I muttered.

I scanned the room by habit. In Sector 9 you checked the exits before you checked the menu, and I had two service doors, a kitchen corridor, and a set of balcony doors mapped before the first waiter reached us. The threats here wore silk gowns and military dress uniforms instead of knuckle tape, but the predatory glint in their eyes was the same.

We were guided to Table One, the High Table.

Of course.

The Director was already seated at the head, looking like a vulture perched on a throne. He nodded as we approached, a tight acknowledgement that we hadn’t embarrassed him yet.

“Asset Cento. Asset Regillen,” Tegula said, his voice smooth. “You are just in time for the first course.”

Felix slid into his chair with a practiced grace. He moved like he had been born wearing a tuxedo, arranging his napkin and silverware without looking down, and weeks ago I would have hated him for it. Now I filed it with the rest of the performances, because I had seen what this one cost to run. I sat next to him and felt the seams of my jacket strain across my shoulders. The chair was velvet, soft enough to swallow me whole, and I trusted it accordingly.

To my right sat General Vokar, a man whose chest was heavy with medals that caught the chandelier light. He had the scarred neck of a man who used to fight, but his hands were soft now, wrapped around a crystal goblet. Retired violence, drinking off its pension.